Opening…

Preface

“I hate a Preface!” Such will probably be the reader’s exclamation on opening this volume. I will, however, pursue the subject a little further in the form of a dialogue.

Author.—“I entirely agree in your dislike of a Preface; for a good book needs none, and a dull book cannot be mended by it.”

Reader.—“If then you coincide in my opinion, why write a preface? Judging from appearances, your book is long enough without one!”

A.—“Do not be too severe; it is precisely because the road which we propose to travel together is of considerable extent, that I wish to warn you at the outset of the nature of the scenery, and the entertainment you are likely to meet with, in order that you may, if these afford you no attraction, turn aside and seek better amusement and occupation elsewhere.”

R.—“That seems plausible enough; yet, how can I be assured that the result will fulfil your promise? I once travelled in a stage coach, wherein was suspended, for the benefit of passengers, a coloured print of the watering–place which was our destination; it represented a magnificent hotel, with extensive gardens and shrubberies, through the shady walks of which, gaily attired parties were promenading on horseback and on foot. When we arrived, I found myself at a large, square, unsightly inn by the sea–side, where neither flower, shrub, nor tree was to be seen: and on inquiry, I was informed that the print represented the hotel as the proprietor intended it to be! Suppose I were to meet with a similar disappointment in my journey with you?”

A.—“I can at least offer you this comfort; that whereas you could not have got out of the stage half–way on the road without much inconvenience, you can easily lay down the book whenever you find it becoming tedious: if you seek for amusement only, you probably will be disappointed, because one of my chief aims has been to afford you correct information respecting the habits, condition, and character of the North American Indians and those bordering on their territory. I have introduced also several incidents founded on actual occurrences; and some of them, as well as of the characters, are sketched from personal observation.”

R.—“Indeed! you are then the individual who resided with the Pawnees, and published, a few years since, your Travels in North America. I suppose we may expect in these volumes a sort of pot–pourri, composed of all the notes, anecdotes, and observations which you could not conveniently squeeze into your former book?”

A. (looking rather foolish.)—“Although the terms in which you have worded your conjecture are not the most flattering, I own that it is not altogether without foundation; nevertheless, Gentle Reader——“

R.—“Spare your epithets of endearment, or at least reserve them until I have satisfied myself that I can reply in a similar strain.”

A.—“Nay, it is too churlish to censure a harmless courtesy that has been adopted even by the greatest dramatists and novelists from the time of Shakspeare to the present day.”

R.—“It may be so; permit me, however, to request, in the words of one of those dramatists to whom you refer, that you will be so obliging as to

‘Forbear the prologue, And let me know the substance of thy tale!’”

The Orphan.

FIRST VOLUME

CHAPTER PAGE

I. IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A SKETCH OF A VILLAGE IN THE WEST, AND WILL BE INTRODUCED TO SOME OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. 1

II. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MARRIAGE OF COLONEL BRANDON, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 8

III. CONTAINING SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF COLONEL AND MRS. BRANDON, AND OF THE EDUCATION OF THEIR SON REGINALD. 15

IV. CONTAINING SUNDRY ADVENTURES OF REGINALD BRANDON AND HIS FRIEND ETHELSTON ON THE CONTINENT; ALSO SOME FURTHER PROCEEDINGS AT SQUIRE SHIRLEY’S; AND THE RETURN OF REGINALD BRANDON TO HIS HOME.—IN THIS CHAPTER THE SPORTING READER WILL FIND AN EXAMPLE OF AN UNMADE RIDER ON A MADE HUNTER. 20

V. AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS.—REGINALD BRANDON MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 31

VI. REGINALD AND BAPTISTE PAY A VISIT TO WAR–EAGLE.—AN ATTEMPT AT TREACHERY MEETS WITH SUMMARY PUNISHMENT. 39

VII. CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS OF THE HISTORY OF THE TWO DELAWARES AND OF BAPTISTE. THE LATTER RETURNS WITH REGINALD TO MOOSHANNE, THE RESIDENCE OF COLONEL BRANDON. 50

VIII. CONTAINING A SKETCH OF MOOSHANNE.—REGINALD INTRODUCES HIS SISTER TO THE TWO DELAWARES. 59

IX. HOW REGINALD BRANDON RETURNED TO MOOSHANNE WITH HIS SISTER, ACCOMPANIED BY WINGENUND; AND WHAT BEFELL THEM ON THE ROAD. 71

X. IN WHICH THE READER IS UNCEREMONIOUSLY TRANSPORTED TO ANOTHER ELEMENT IN COMPANY WITH ETHELSTON; THE LATTER IS LEFT IN A DISAGREEABLE PREDICAMENT. 79

XI. ETHELSTON’S FURTHER ADVENTURES AT SEA, AND HOW HE BECAME CAPTOR AND CAPTIVE IN A VERY SHORT SPACE OF TIME. 87

XII. VISIT OF WINGENUND TO MOOSHANNE.—HE REJOINS WAR–EAGLE, AND THEY RETURN TO THEIR BAND IN THE FAR WEST.—M. PERROT MAKES AN UNSUCCESSFUL ATTACK ON THE HEART OF A YOUNG LADY. 97

XIII. IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND THAT THE COUCH OF AN INVALID HAS PERILS NOT LESS FORMIDABLE THAN THOSE WHICH ARE TO BE ENCOUNTERED AT SEA. 107

XIV. NARRATING THE TRIALS AND DANGERS THAT BESET ETHELSTON; AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THEM, AND FROM THE ISLAND OF GUADALOUPE. 117

XV. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT MOOSHANNE DURING THE STAY OF ETHELSTON IN GUADALOUPE.—DEPARTURE OF REGINALD FOR THE FAR–WEST. 128

XVI. THE ESCAPE OF ETHELSTON FROM GUADALOUPE, AND THE CONSEQUENCES WHICH ENSUED FROM THAT EXPEDITION. 136

XVII. EXCURSION ON THE PRAIRIE.—THE PARTY FALL IN WITH A VETERAN HUNTER. 148

XVIII. REGINALD AND HIS PARTY REACH THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT. 156

SECOND VOLUME

I. REGINALD AND HIS PARTY AT THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT. 165

II. REGINALD HOLDS A CONVERSATION WITH THE MISSIONARY. 173

III. AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA. 181

IV. AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT. 193

V. SYMPTOMS OF A RUPTURE BETWEEN THE DELAWARES AND OSAGES.—MAHÉGA COMES FORWARD IN THE CHARACTER OF A LOVER.—HIS COURTSHIP RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION. 212

VI. ETHELSTON PREPARES TO LEAVE MOOSHANNE.—MAHÉGA APPEARS AS AN ORATOR, IN WHICH CHARACTER HE SUCCEEDS BETTER THAN IN THAT OF A LOVER.—A STORM SUCCEEDED BY A CALM. 222

VII. IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A MORAL DISQUISITION SOMEWHAT TEDIOUS, A TRUE STORY SOMEWHAT INCREDIBLE, A CONFERENCE THAT ENDS IN PEACE, AND A COUNCIL THAT BETOKENS WAR. 239

VIII. WAR–EAGLE AND REGINALD, WITH THEIR PARTY, PURSUE THE DAHCOTAHS. 257

IX. A DESERTED VILLAGE IN THE WEST.—MAHÉGA CARRIES OFF PRAIRIE–BIRD, AND ENDEAVOURS TO BAFFLE PURSUIT. 264

X. AN AMBUSCADE.—REGINALD BRANDON FINDS HIS HORSE, AND M. PERROT NEARLY LOSES HIS HEAD.—WHILE INDIAN PHILOSOPHY IS DISPLAYED IN ONE QUARTER, INDIAN CREDULITY IS EXHIBITED IN ANOTHER. 273

XI. ETHELSTON VISITS ST. LOUIS, WHERE HE UNEXPECTEDLY MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND UNDERTAKES A LONGER JOURNEY THAN HE HAD CONTEMPLATED. 290

XII. THE OSAGES ENCAMP NEAR THE BASE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.—AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVES. 297

XIII. WAR–EAGLE’S PARTY FOLLOW THE TRAIL.—A SKIRMISH AND ITS RESULTS.—THE CHIEF UNDERTAKES A PERILOUS JOURNEY ALONE, AND HIS COMPANIONS FIND SUFFICIENT OCCUPATION DURING HIS ABSENCE. 307

XIV. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.—REGINALD PREPARES TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL. 328

XV. SHOWING HOW WINGENUND FARED IN THE OSAGE CAMP, AND THE ISSUE OF THE DILEMMA IN WHICH PRAIRIE–BIRD WAS PLACED BY MAHÉGA. 337

XVI. MAHÉGA FINDS THE BODIES OF HIS TWO FOLLOWERS SLAIN BY WAR–EAGLE.—SOME REFLECTIONS ON THE INDIAN CHARACTER.—WAR–EAGLE RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS, AND THE OSAGE CHIEF PUSHES HIS WAY FURTHER INTO THE MOUNTAINS. 347

THIRD VOLUME

I. WAR–EAGLE AND HIS PARTY REACH THE DESERTED CAMP OF THE OSAGES.—THE LATTER FALL IN WITH A STRANGE BAND OF INDIANS, AND MAHÉGA APPEARS IN THE CHARACTER OF A DIPLOMATIST. 367

II. CONTAINING VARIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED TO THE PARTY FOLLOWING THE TRAIL.—PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS, AND A DISCUSSION UPON ORATORY, WHICH IS VERY MUCH OUT OF PLACE, AND, FORTUNATELY FOR THE READER, IS NOT VERY LONG. 385

III. A SCENE IN THE TENT OF PRAIRIE–BIRD, WHO GIVES SOME GOOD ADVICE, AND RECEIVES IN A SHORT SPACE OF TIME MORE THAN ONE UNEXPECTED VISITOR.—THE CROWS LED BY MAHÉGA ATTACK THE DELAWARE CAMP BY NIGHT.—THE DEFEATED PARTY ACHIEVE A KIND OF TRIUMPH, AND THE VICTORS MEET WITH AN UNEXPECTED LOSS. 403

IV. THE NEGOTIATION SET ON FOOT BY REGINALD FOR THE RELEASE OF HIS FRIENDS.—BESHA BECOMES AN IMPORTANT PERSONAGE. 422

V. DAVID MUIR AND HIS DAUGHTER PAY A VISIT TO COLONEL BRANDON.—THE MERCHANT BECOMES AMBITIOUS; HE ENTERTAINS PROJECTS FOR JESSIE’S FUTURE WELFARE, WHICH DO NOT COINCIDE WITH THAT YOUNG LADY’S WISHES. 430

VI. BESHA PURSUES HIS CAREER AS A DIPLOMATIST.—AN AGREEABLE TETE–A–TETE DISAGREEABLY INTERRUPTED.—THE STEPS THAT MAHÉGA TOOK TO SUPPORT HIS DECLINING INTERESTS AMONG THE CROWS. 440

VII. WINGENUND DEVISES A PLAN FOR THE LIBERATION OF HIS FRIENDS, AND SEEKS TO OBTAIN BY MEANS EQUALLY UNUSUAL AND EFFECTIVE THE CO–OPERATION OF THE ONE–EYED HORSE–DEALER.—A FURTHER MARCH INTO THE MOUNTAINS.—WINGENUND PAYS A VISIT TO HIS FRIENDS, AND THE LATTER MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH A STRANGE CHARACTER. 460

VIII. THE ROOT–DIGGER MAKES FRIENDS WITH THE PARTY.—AN ADVENTURE WITH A GRISLY BEAR.—THE CONDUCT OF WAR–EAGLE. 478

IX. MAHÉGA IS FOUND IN STRANGE COMPANY, AND WINGENUND DEFERS, ON ACCOUNT OF MORE IMPORTANT CONCERNS, HIS PLAN FOR THE LIBERATION OF HIS FRIENDS.—A COUNCIL, A COMBAT, AND A SKIRMISH, IN WHICH LAST THE CROWS RECEIVE ASSISTANCE FROM A QUARTER WHENCE THEY LEAST EXPECTED IT. 487

X. WINGENUND AND HIS FRIENDS RETURN TOWARDS THEIR CAMP.—A SERIOUS ADVENTURE AND A SERIOUS ARGUMENT OCCUR BY THE WAY.—SHOWING, ALSO, HOW THE EXTREMES OF GRIEF, SURPRISE, AND JOY MAY BE CROWDED INTO THE SPACE OF A FEW MINUTES. 507

XI. CONTAINING A TREATY BETWEEN THE CROWS AND DELAWARES, AND THE DEATH OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 527

XII. WAR–EAGLE’S FUNERAL.—THE PARTY COMMENCE THEIR HOMEWARD JOURNEY.—BESHA EXERTS HIS DIPLOMATIC TALENTS FOR THE LAST TIME, AND RECEIVES SEVERAL REWARDS, WITH SOME OF WHICH HE WOULD WILLINGLY HAVE DISPENSED. 540

XIII. THE SCENE IS SHIFTED TO THE BANKS OF THE MUSKINGUM, AND PRAIRIE–BIRD RETURNS TO THE HOME OF HER CHILDHOOD. 553

SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER. 557

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MONSIEUR PERROT IS SCALPED FACING PAGE i

WINGENUND AND LUCY ” ” 70

PRAIRIE–BIRD AND MAHÉGA ” ” 218

REGINALD AND THE CROW CHIEF ” ” 313

MAHÉGA SPYING THE CAMP OF THE DELAWARES ” ” 398

WAR–EAGLE AND THE GRIZZLY BEAR ” ” 482

THE

PRAIRIE–BIRD.

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Chapter I

IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A SKETCH OF A VILLAGE IN THE WEST, AND WILL BE INTRODUCED TO SOME OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

There is, perhaps, no country in the world more favoured, in respect to natural advantages, than the state of Ohio in North America: the soil is of inexhaustible fertility; the climate temperate; the rivers, flowing into Lake Erie to the north, and through the Ohio into the Mississippi to the south–west, are navigable for many hundreds of miles; the forests abound with the finest timber, and even the bowels of the earth pay, in various kinds of mineral, abundant contribution to the general wealth: the southern frontier of the state is bounded by the noble river from which she derives her name, and which obtained from the early French traders and missionaries the well–deserved appellation of “La Belle Rivière.”

Towns and cities are now multiplying upon its banks; the axe has laid low vast tracts of its forest; the plough has passed over many thousand acres of the prairies which it fertilised; and crowds of steam–boats, laden with goods, manufactures, and passengers, from every part of the world, urge their busy way through its waters.

Far different was the appearance and condition of that region at the period when the events detailed in the following narrative occurred. The reader must bear in mind that, at the close of the last century, the vast tracts of forest and prairie now forming the states of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, were all included in what was then called the North–west Territory; it was still inhabited by numerous bands of Indian tribes, of which the most powerful were the Lenapé, or Delawares, the Shawanons, the Miamies, and the Wyandotes, or Hurons.

Here and there, at favourable positions on the navigable rivers, were trading–posts, defended by small forts, to which the Indians brought their skins of bear, deer, bison, and beaver; receiving in exchange powder, rifles, paint, hatchets, knives, blankets, and other articles, which, although unknown to their forefathers, had become to them, through their intercourse with the whites, numbered among the necessaries of life. But the above–mentioned animals, especially the two last, were already scarce in this region; and the more enterprising of the hunters, Indian as well as white men, made annual excursions to the wild and boundless hunting–ground, westward of the Mississippi.

At the close of the eighteenth century, the villages and settlements on the north bank of the Ohio, being scarce and far apart, were built rather for the purpose of trading with the Indians than for agriculture or civilised industry; and their inhabitants were as bold and hardy, sometimes as wild and lawless, as the red men, with whom they were beginning to dispute the soil.

Numerous quarrels arose between these western settlers and their Indian neighbours; blood was frequently shed, and fierce retaliation ensued, which ended in open hostility. The half–disciplined militia, aided sometimes by regular troops, invaded and burnt the Indian villages; while the red men, seldom able to cope with their enemy in the open field, cut off detached parties, massacred unprotected families; and so swift and indiscriminate was their revenge, that settlements, at some distance from the scene of war, were often aroused at midnight by the unexpected alarm of the war–whoop and the fire–brand. There were occasions, however, when the Indians boldly attacked and defeated the troops sent against them; but General Wayne, having taken the command of the western forces (about four years before the commencement of our tale), routed them at the battle of the Miamies with great slaughter; after which many of them went off to the Missain plains, and those who remained no more ventured to appear in the field against the United States.

One of the earliest trading ports established in that region was Marietta, a pretty village situated at the mouth of the Muskimgum river, where it falls into the Ohio. Even so far back as the year 1799 it boasted a church; several taverns; a strong block–house, serving as a protection against an attack from the Indians; stores for the sale of grocery; and, in short, such a collection of buildings as has, in more than one instance in the western states of America, grown into a city with unexampled rapidity.

This busy and flourishing village had taken the lead, of all others within a hundred miles, in the construction of vessels for the navigation of the Ohio and Mississippi; nay, some of the more enterprising merchants there settled, had actually built, launched, and freighted brigs and schooners of sufficient burthen to brave the seas of the Mexican gulf; and had opened, in their little inland port, a direct trade with the West Indian islands, to which they exported flour, pork, maize, and other articles, their vessels returning laden with fruit, coffee, sugar, and rum.

The largest store in the village, situated in the centre of a row of houses fronting the river, was built of brick, and divided into several compartments, wherein were to be found all the necessaries of life,—all such at least as were called for by the inhabitants of Marietta and its neighbourhood; one of these compartments was crowded with skins and furs from the north–west, and with clothes, cottons, and woollen stuffs from England; the second with earthenware, cutlery, mirrors, rifles, stoves, grates, &c.; while in the third, which was certainly the most frequented, were sold flour, tea, sugar, rum, whiskey, gunpowder, spices, cured pork, &c.; in a deep corner or recess of the latter was a trap–door, not very often opened, but which led to a cellar, wherein was stored a reasonable quantity of Madeira and claret, the quality of which would not have disgraced the best hotel in Philadelphia.

Over this multifarious property on sale presided David Muir, a bony, long–armed man, of about forty–five years of age, whose red bristly hair, prominent cheek bones, and sharp, sunken grey eyes, would, without the confirming evidence of his broad Scottish accent, have indicated to an experienced observer the country to which he owed his birth. In the duties of his employment, David was well seconded by his helpmate, a tall, powerful woman, whose features, though strong and masculine, retained the marks of early beauty, and whose voice, when raised in wrath, reached the ears of every individual, even in the furthest compartment of the extensive store above described.

David was a shrewd, enterprising fellow, trustworthy in matters of business, and peaceable enough in temper; though in more than one affray, which had arisen in consequence of some of his customers, white men and Indians, having taken on the spot too much of his “fire–water,” he had shown that he was not to be affronted with impunity; nevertheless, in the presence of Mrs. Christie (so was his spouse called) he was gentle and subdued, never attempting to rebel against an authority which an experience of twenty years had proved to be irresistible. One only child, aged now about eighteen, was the fruit of their marriage; and Jessie Muir was certainly more pleasing in her manners and in her appearance than might have been expected from her parentage; she assisted her mother in cooking, baking, and other domestic duties; and, when not thus engaged, read or worked in a corner of the cotton and silk compartment, over which she presided. Two lads, engaged at a salary of four dollars a–week, to assist in the sale, care, and package of the goods, completed David’s establishment, which was perhaps the largest and the best provided that could be found westward of the Alleghany mountains.

It must not be supposed, however, that all this property was his own: it belonged for the most part to Colonel Brandon, a gentleman who resided on his farm, seven or eight miles from the village, and who entrusted David Muir with the entire charge of the stores in Marietta; the accounts of the business were regularly audited by the colonel once every year, and a fair share of the profits as regularly made over to David, whose accuracy and integrity had given much satisfaction to his principal.

Three of the largest trading vessels from the port of Marietta were owned and freighted by Colonel Brandon; the command and management of them being entrusted by him to Edward Ethelston, a young man who, being now in his twenty–eighth year, discharged the duties of captain and supercargo with the greatest steadiness, ability, and success.

As young Ethelston and his family will occupy a considerable place in our narrative, it may be as well to detail briefly the circumstances which led to his enjoying so large a share of the Colonel’s affection and confidence.

About eleven years before the date mentioned as being that of the commencement of our tale, Colonel Brandon, having sold his property in Virginia, had moved to the north–west territory, with his wife and his two children, Reginald and Lucy. He had persuaded, at the same time, a Virginian friend, Digby Ethelston, who, like himself, was descended from an ancient royalist family in the mother country, to accompany him in this migration. The feelings, associations, and prejudices of both the friends had been frequently wounded during the war which terminated in the independence of the United States; for not only were both attached by those feelings and associations to the old country, but they had also near connections resident there, with whom they kept up a friendly intercourse.

It was not, therefore, difficult for Colonel Brandon to persuade his friend to join him in his proposed emigration. The latter, who was a widower, and who, like the colonel, had only two children, was fortunate in having under his roof a sister, who, being now past the prime of life, devoted herself entirely to the charge of her brother’s household. Aunt Mary (for she was known by no other name) expressed neither aversion nor alarm at the prospect of settling permanently in so remote a region; and the two families moved accordingly, with goods and chattels, to the banks of the Ohio.

The Colonel and his friend were both possessed of considerable property, a portion of which they invested in the fur companies, which at that time carried on extensive traffic in the north–west territory; they also acquired from the United States government large tracts of land at no great distance from Marietta, upon which each selected an agreeable site for his farm or country residence.

Their houses were not far apart, and though rudely built at first, they gradually assumed a more comfortable appearance; wings were added, stables enlarged, the gardens and peach–orchards were well fenced, and the adjoining farm–offices amply stocked with horses and cattle.

For two years all went on prosperously: the boys, Edward Ethelston and Reginald Brandon, were as fond of each other as their fathers could desire: the former, being three years the senior, and possessed of excellent qualities of head and heart, controlled the ardent and somewhat romantic temper of Reginald: both were at school near Philadelphia: when on a beautiful day in June, Mr. Ethelston and Aunt Mary walked over to pay a visit to Mrs. Brandon, leaving little Evelyn (who was then about eight years old) with her nurse at home: they remained at Colonel Brandon’s to dine, and were on the point of returning in the afternoon, when a farm–servant of Mr. Ethelston’s rushed into the room where the two gentlemen were sitting alone; he was pale, breathless, and so agitated that he could not utter a syllable: “For heaven’s sake speak! What has happened?” exclaimed Colonel Brandon.

A dreadful pause ensued: at length, he rather gasped than said, “The Indians!” and buried his face in his hands, as if to shut out some horrid spectacle!

Poor Ethelston’s tongue clove to his mouth; the prescient agony of a father overcame him.

“What of the Indians, man?” said Colonel Brandon, angrily; “‘sblood, we have seen Indians enough hereabout before now;—what the devil have they been at?”

A groan and a shudder was the only reply.

The Colonel now lost all patience, and exclaimed, “By heavens, the sight of a red–skin seems to have frightened the fellow out of his senses! I did not know, Ethelston, that you trusted your farm–stock to such a chicken–heart as this!”

Incensed by this taunt, the rough lad replied, “Colonel for all as you be so bold, and have seen, as they say, a bloody field or two, you’d a’ been skeared if you’d a’ seen this job; but as for my being afeared of Ingians in an up and down fight, or in a tree skrimmage—I don’t care who says it—t’aint a fact.”

“I believe it, my good fellow,” said the Colonel; “but keep us no longer in suspense—say what has happened?”

“Why, you see, Colonel, about an hour ago, Jem and Eliab was at work in the ‘baccy–field behind the house, and nurse was out in the big meadow a walkin’ with Miss Evelyn, when I heard a cry as if all the devils had broke loose; in a moment, six or eight painted Ingians with rifles and tomahawks dashed out of the laurel thicket, and murdered poor Jem and Eliab before they could get at their rifles which stood by the worm fence[1]; two of them then went after the nurse and child in the meadow, while the rest broke into the house, which they ransacked and set o’ fire!”

“But my child?” cried the agonised father.

“I fear it’s gone too,” said the messenger of this dreadful news. “I saw one devil kill and scalp the nurse, and t’other,”—here he paused, awe–struck by the speechless agony of poor Ethelston, who stood with clasped hands and bloodless lips, unable to ask for the few more words which were to complete his despair.

“Speak on, man, let us know the worst;” said the Colonel, at the same time supporting the trembling form of his unhappy friend.

“I seed the tomahawk raised over the sweet child, and I tried to rush out o’ my hidin’ place to save it, when the flames and the smoke broke out, and I tumbled into the big ditch below the garden, over head in water; by the time I got out and reached the place, the red devils were all gone, and the house, and straw, and barns all in a blaze!”

Poor Ethelston had only heard the first few words—they were enough—his head sunk upon his breast, his whole frame shuddered convulsively; and a rapid succession of inarticulate sounds came from his lips, among which nothing could be distinguished beyond “child,” “tomahawk,” “Evelyn.”

It is needless to relate in detail all that followed this painful scene; the bodies of the unfortunate labourers and of the nurse were found; all had been scalped; that of the child was not found; and though Colonel Brandon himself led a band of the most experienced hunters in pursuit, the trail of the savages could not be followed: with their usual wily foresight they had struck off through the forest in different directions, and succeeded in baffling all attempts at discovering either their route or their tribe. Messengers were sent to the trading–posts at Kaskaskia, Vincennes, and even to Genevieve, and St. Louis, and all returned dispirited by a laborious and fruitless search.

Mr. Ethelston never recovered this calamitous blow: several fits of paralysis, following each other in rapid succession, carried him off within a few months. By his will he appointed a liberal annuity to Aunt Mary, and left the remainder of his property to his son Edward, but entirely under the control and guardianship of Colonel Brandon.

The latter had prevailed upon Aunt Mary and her young nephew to become inmates of his house; where, after the soothing effect of time had softened the bitterness of their grief, they found the comforts, the occupations, the endearments, the social blessings embodied in the word “home.” Edward became more fondly attached than ever to his younger companion Reginald; and Aunt Mary, besides aiding Mrs. Brandon in the education of her daughter, found time to knit, to hem, to cook, to draw, to plant vegetables, to rear flowers, to read, to give medicine to any sick in the neighbourhood, and to comfort all who, like herself, had suffered under the chastising hand of Providence.

Such were the circumstances which (eleven years before the commencement of this narrative) had led to the affectionate and paternal interest which the Colonel felt for the son of his friend, and which was increased by the high and estimable qualities gradually developed in Edward’s character. Before proceeding further in our tale, it is necessary to give the reader some insight into the early history of Colonel Brandon himself, and into those occurrences in the life of his son Reginald which throw light upon the events hereafter to be related.

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Chapter II

CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MARRIAGE OF COLONEL BRANDON, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

George Brandon was the only son of a younger brother, a scion of an ancient and distinguished family: they had been, for the most part, staunch Jacobites, and George’s father lost the greater part of his property in a fruitless endeavour to support the ill–timed and ill–conducted expedition of Charles Edward, in 1745.

After this he retired to the Continent and died, leaving to his son little else besides his sword, a few hundred crowns, and an untarnished name. The young man returned to England; and, being agreeable, accomplished, and strikingly handsome, was kindly received by some of his relations and their friends.

During one of the visits that he paid at the house of a neighbour in the country, he fell desperately in love with Lucy Shirley, the daughter of the richest squire in the country, a determined Whig, and one who hated a Jacobite worse than a Frenchman. As George Brandon’s passion was returned with equal ardour, and the object of it was young and inexperienced as himself, all the obstacles opposed to their union only served to add fuel to the flame; and, after repeated but vain endeavours on the part of Lucy Shirley to reconcile her father, or her only brother, to the match, she eloped with her young lover; and, by a rapid escape into Scotland, where they were immediately married, they rendered abortive all attempt at pursuit.

It was not long before the young couple began to feel some of the painful consequences of their imprudence. The old squire was not to be appeased; he would neither see his daughter, nor would he open one of the many letters which she wrote to entreat his forgiveness: but, although incensed, he was a proud man and scrupulously just in all his dealings: Lucy had been left 10,000_l._ by her grand–mother, but it was not due to her until she attained her twenty–first year, or married with her father’s consent. The squire waved both these conditions; he knew that his daughter had fallen from a brilliant sphere to one comparatively humble. Even in the midst of his wrath he did not wish her to starve, and accordingly instructed his lawyer to write to Mrs. Brandon, and to inform her that he had orders to pay her 500_l._ a–year, until she thought fit to demand the payment of the principal.

George and his wife returned, after a brief absence, to England, and made frequent efforts to overcome, by entreaty and submission, the old squire’s obduracy; but it was all in vain: neither were they more successful in propitiating the young squire, an eccentric youth, who lived among dogs and horses, and who had imbibed from his father an hereditary taste for old port, and an antipathy to Jacobites. His reply to a letter which George wrote, entreating his good offices in effecting a reconciliation between Lucy and her father, will serve better than an elaborate description to illustrate his character; it ran as follows:—

“Sir,

“When my sister married a Jacobite, against Father’s consent, she carried her eggs to a fool’s market, and she must make the best of her own bargain. Father isn’t such a flat as to be gulled with your fine words now: and tho’ they say I’m not over forw’rd in my schoolin’, you must put some better bait on your trap before you catch

“MARMADUKE SHIRLEY, Jun.”

It may well be imagined, that after the receipt of this epistle George Brandon did not seek to renew his intercourse with Lucy’s brother: but as she had now presented him with a little boy, he began to meditate seriously on the means which he should adopt to better his fortunes.

One of his most intimate and esteemed friends, Digby Ethelston, being, like himself, a portionless member of an ancient family, had gone out early in life to America, and had, by dint of persevering industry, gained a respectable competence: while in the southern colonies he had married the daughter of an old French planter, who had left the marquisate to which he was entitled in his own country, in order to live in peace and quiet among the sugar–canes and cotton–fields of Louisiana. Ethelston had received with his wife a considerable accession of fortune, and they were on the eve of returning across the Atlantic, her husband having settled all the affairs which had brought him to England.

His representations of the New World made a strong impression on the sanguine mind of George Brandon, and he proposed to his wife to emigrate with their little one to America. Poor Lucy, cut off from her own family, and devoted to her husband, made no difficulty whatever, and it was soon settled that they should accompany the Ethelstons.

George now called upon Mr. Shirley’s solicitor, a dry, matter–of–fact, parchment man, to inform him of their intention, and of their wish that the principal of Lucy’s fortune might be paid up. The lawyer took down a dusty box of black tin whereon was engraved “Marmaduke Shirley, Esq., Shirley Hall, No. 7.”; and after carefully perusing a paper of instructions, he said, “Mrs. Brandon’s legacy shall be paid up, sir, on the 1st of July, to any party whom she may empower to receive it on her behalf, and to give a legal discharge for the same.”

“And pray, sir,” said George, hesitating, “as we are going across the Atlantic, perhaps never to return, do you not think Mr. Shirley would see his daughter once before she sails, to give her his blessing?”

Again the man of parchment turned his sharp nose towards the paper, and having scanned its contents, he said, “I find nothing, sir, in these instructions on that point. Good morning, Mr. Brandon.—James, show in Sir John Waltham.”

George walked home dispirited, and the punctual solicitor failed not to inform the squire immediately of the young couple’s intended emigration, and the demand for the paying up of the sum due to Lucy. In spite of his long–cherished prejudices against George Brandon’s Jacobite family, and his anger at the elopement, he was somewhat softened by time, by what he heard of the blameless life led by the young man, and by the respectful conduct that the latter had evinced towards his wife’s family; for it had happened on one occasion that some of his young companions had thought fit to speak of the obstinacy and stinginess of the old squire: this language George had instantly and indignantly checked, saying, “My conduct in marrying his daughter against his consent, was unjustifiable: though he has not forgiven her, has he behaved justly and honourably. Any word spoken disrespectfully of my wife’s father, I shall consider a personal insult to myself.”

This had accidentally reached the ears of the old squire; and though still too proud and too obstinate to agree to any reconciliation, he said to the solicitor: “Perkins, I will not be reconciled to these scapegraces; I will have no intercourse with them, but I will see Lucy before she goes; she must not see me. Arrange it as you please: desire her to come to your house to sign the discharge for the 10,000_l._, in person; you can put me in a cupboard, in the next room; where you will; a glass door will do;—you understand?”

“Yes, sir. When?”

“Oh, the sooner the better; whenever the papers are ready.”

“It shall be done, sir.” And thus the interview closed.

Meantime George made one final effort in a letter, which he addressed to the squire, couched in terms at once manly and respectful; owning the errors that he had committed, but hoping that forgiveness might precede this long, this last separation.

This letter was returned to him unopened; and, in order to conceal from Lucy the grief and mortification of his high and wounded spirit, he was obliged to absent himself from home for many hours; and when he did return, it was with a clouded brow.

Certainly the fate of this young couple, though not altogether prosperous, was in one particular a remarkable exception to the usual results of a runaway match; they were affectionately and entirely devoted to each other: and Lucy, though she had been once, and only once, a disobedient daughter, was the most loving and obedient of wives.

The day fixed for her signature arrived. Mr. Perkins had made all his arrangements agreeably to his wealthy client’s instructions; and when, accompanied by her husband, she entered the solicitor’s study, she was little conscious that her father was separated from her only by a frail door, which being left ajar, he could see her, and hear every word that she spoke.

Mr. Perkins, placing the draft of the discharge into George Brandon’s hand, together with the instrument whereby his wife was put in possession of the 10,000_l._, said to him, “Would it not be better, sir, to send for your solicitor to inspect these papers on behalf of yourself and Mrs. Brandon, before she signs the discharge?”

“Allow me to inquire, sir,” replied George, “whether Mr. Shirley has perused these papers, and has placed them here for his daughter’s signature?”

“Assuredly, he has, sir,” said the lawyer, “and I have too, on his behalf; you do not imagine, sir, that my client would pay the capital sum without being certain that the discharge was regular and sufficient!”

“Then I am satisfied, sir,” said George, with something of disdain expressed on his fine countenance. “Mr. Shirley is a man of honour, and a father; whatever he has sent for his daughter’s signature will secure her interests as effectually as if a dozen solicitors had inspected it.”

At the conclusion of this speech, a sort of indistinct hem proceeded from the ensconced squire; to cover which, Mr. Perkins said, “But, sir, it is not usual to sign papers of this consequence without examining them.”

“Lucy, my dear,” said George, turning with a smile of affectionate confidence to his wife; “to oblige Mr. Perkins, I will read through these two papers attentively: sit down for a minute, as they are somewhat long:” so saying, he applied himself at once to his task.

Meantime Lucy, painfully agitated and excited, made several attempts to address Mr. Perkins; but her voice failed her, as soon as she turned her eyes upon that gentleman’s rigid countenance: at length, however, by a desperate effort, she succeeded in asking, tremulously, “Mr. Perkins, have you seen my father lately?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the lawyer nibbing his pen.

“Oh! tell me how he is!—Has the gout left him?—Can he ride to the farm as he used?”

“He is well, madam, very well, I believe.”

“Shall you see him soon again, sir?”

“Yes, madam, I must show him these papers, when signed.”

“Oh! then, tell him, that his daughter, who never disobeyed him but once, has wept bitterly for her fault; that she will probably never see him again, in this world; that she blesses him in her daily prayers. Oh! tell him, I charge you as you are a man, tell him, that I could cross the ocean happy—that I could bear years of sickness, of privation, happy—that I could die happy, if I had but my dear, dear father’s blessing.” As she said this, the young wife had unconsciously fallen upon one knee before the man of law, and her tearful eyes were bent upon his countenance in earnest supplication.

Again an indistinct noise, as of a suppressed groan or sob, was heard from behind the door, and the solicitor wiping his spectacles and turning away his face to conceal an emotion of which he felt rather ashamed, said: “I will tell him all you desire, madam; and if I receive his instructions to make any communication in reply, I will make it faithfully, and without loss of time.”

“Thank you, thank you a thousand times,” said Lucy: and resuming her seat, she endeavoured to recover her composure.

George had by this time run his eye over the papers; and although he had overheard his wife’s appeal to the solicitor, he would not interrupt her, nor throw any obstacle in the way of an object which he knew she had so much at heart. “I am perfectly satisfied, sir,” said he; “you have nothing to do but to provide the witnesses, and Mrs. Brandon will affix her signature.”

Two clerks of Mr. Perkins’ were accordingly summoned, and the discharge having been signed in their presence, they retired. Mr. Perkins now drew another paper from the leaves of a book on his table, saying: “Mr. Brandon, the discharge being now signed and attested, I have further instructions from Mr. Shirley to inform you, that although he cannot alter his determination of refusing to see his daughter, or holding any intercourse with yourself, he is desirous that you should not in America find yourself in straitened circumstances; and has accordingly authorised me to place in your hands this draft upon his banker for 5000_l._”

“Mr. Perkins,” said George, in a tone of mingled sadness and pride; “in the payment of the 10,000_l._, my wife’s fortune, Mr. Shirley, though acting honourably, has only done justice, and has dealt as he would have dealt with strangers; had he thought proper to listen to my wife’s, or to my own repeated entreaties for forgiveness and reconciliation, I would gratefully have received from him, as from a father, any favour that he wished to confer on us; but, sir, as he refuses to see me under his roof, or even to give his affectionate and repentant child a parting blessing, I would rather work for my daily bread than receive at his hands the donation of a guinea.”

As he said this, he tore the draft and scattered its shreds on the table before the astonished lawyer. Poor Lucy was still in tears, yet one look assured her husband that she felt with him. He added in a gentler tone, “Mr. Perkins, accept my acknowledgments for your courtesy;” and, offering his arm to Lucy, turned to leave the room.

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Chapter III

CONTAINING SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF COLONEL AND MRS. BRANDON, AND OF THE EDUCATION OF THEIR SON REGINALD.

While the scene described in the last chapter was passing in the lawyer’s study, stormy and severe was the struggle going on in the breast of the listening father; more than once he had been on the point of rushing into the room to fold his child in his arms; but that obstinate pride, which causes in life so many bitter hours of regret, prevented him, and checked the natural impulse of affection: still, as she turned with her husband to leave the room, he unconsciously opened the door on the lock of which his hand rested, as he endeavoured to get one last look at a face which he had so long loved and caressed. The door being thus partially opened, a very diminutive and favourite spaniel, that accompanied him wherever he went, escaped through the aperture, and, recognising Lucy, barked and jumped upon her in an ecstasy of delight.

“Heavens!” cried she, “it is—it must be Fan!” At another time she would have fondly caressed it, but one only thought now occupied her: trembling on her husband’s arm, she whispered, “George, papa must be here.” At that moment her eye caught the partially opened door, which the agitated squire still held, and breaking from her husband, she flew as if by instinct into the adjacent room, and fell at her father’s feet.

Poor Mr. Perkins was now grievously disconcerted; and calling out, “This way, madam, this way; that is not the right door,” was about to follow, when George Brandon, laying his hand upon the lawyer’s arm, said, impressively,

“Stay, sir; that room is sacred!” and led him back to his chair. His quick mind had seized in a moment the correctness of Lucy’s conjecture, and his good feeling taught him that no third person, not even he, should intrude upon the father and the child.

The old squire could not make a long resistance when the gush of his once loved Lucy’s tears trickled upon his hand, and while her half–choked voice sobbed for his pardon and his blessing; it was in vain that he summoned all his pride, all his strength, all his anger; Nature would assert her rights; and in another minute his child’s head was on his bosom, and he whispered over her, “I forgive you, Lucy: may God bless you, as I do!”

For some time after this was the interview prolonged, and Lucy seemed to be pleading for some boon which she could not obtain; nevertheless, her tears, her old familiar childish caresses, had regained something of their former dominion over the choleric but warm–hearted squire; and in a voice of joy that thrilled even through the quiet man of law, she cried, “George! George, come in!” He leaped from his seat, and in a moment was at the feet of her father. There, as he knelt by Lucy’s side, the old squire put one hand upon the head of each, saying, “My children, all that you have ever done to offend me is forgotten: continue to love and to cherish each other, and may God prosper you with every blessing!” George Brandon’s heart was full: he could not speak; but straining his wife affectionately to his bosom, and kissing her father’s hand, he withdrew into a corner of the room, and for some minutes remained oppressed by emotions too strong to find relief in expressions.

We need not detail at length the consequences of this happy and unexpected reconciliation. The check was re–written, was doubled, and was accepted. George still persevered in his wish to accompany his friend to Virginia; where, Ethelston assured him, that with his 20,000_l._ prudently managed, he might easily acquire a sufficient fortune for himself and his family.

How mighty is the power of circumstance; and upon what small pivots does Providence sometimes allow the wheels of human fortune to be turned! Here, in the instance just related, the blessing or unappeased wrath of a father, the joy or despair of a daughter, the peace or discord of a family, all, all were dependent upon the bark and caress of a spaniel! For that stern old man had made his determination, and would have adhered to it, if Lucy had not thus been made aware of his presence, and, by her grief aiding the voice of nature, overthrown all the defences of his pride.

It happened that the young squire was at this time in Paris, his father having sent him thither to see the world and learn to fence. A letter was, however, written by Lucy, announcing to him the happy reconciliation, and entreating him to participate in their common happiness.

The arrangements for the voyage were soon completed; the cabin of a large vessel being engaged to convey the whole party to Norfolk in Virginia. The old squire offered no opposition, considering that George Brandon was too old to begin a profession in England, and that he might employ his time and abilities advantageously in the New World.

We may pass over many of the ensuing years, the events of which have little influence on our narrative, merely informing the reader that the investment of Brandon’s money, made by the advice of Ethelston, was prosperous in the extreme. In the course of a year or two, Mrs. Brandon presented her lord with a little girl, who was named after herself. In the following year, Mrs. Ethelston had also a daughter: the third confinement was not so fortunate, and she died in childbed, leaving, to Ethelston, Edward, then about nine, and little Evelyn a twelvemonth old.

It was on this sad occasion that he persuaded his sister to come out from England to reside with him, and take care of his motherless children: a task that she undertook and fulfilled with the love and devotion of the most affectionate mother.

In course of time the war broke out which ended in the independence of the colonies. During its commencement, Brandon and Ethelston both remained firm to the crown; but as it advanced, they became gradually convinced of the impolicy and injustice of the claims urged by England. Brandon having sought an interview with Washington, the arguments, and the character, of that great man decided him: he joined the Independent party, obtained a command, and distinguished himself so much as to obtain the esteem and regard of his commander. As soon as peace was established, he had, for reasons before stated, determined to change his residence, and persuaded Ethelston to accompany him with his family.

After the dreadful domestic calamity mentioned in the first chapter, and the untimely death of Ethelston, Colonel Brandon sent Edward, the son of his deceased friend, to a distant relative in Hamburgh, desiring that every care might be given to give him a complete mercantile and liberal education, including two years’ study at a German university.

Meanwhile the old Squire Shirley was dead; but his son and successor had written, after his own strange fashion, a letter to his sister, begging her to send over her boy to England, and he would “make a man of him.” After duly weighing this proposal, Colonel and Mrs. Brandon determined to avail themselves of it; and Reginald was accordingly sent over to his uncle, who had promised to enter him immediately at Oxford.

When Reginald arrived, Marmaduke Shirley turned him round half a dozen times, felt his arms, punched his ribs, looked at his ruddy cheeks and brown hair, that had never known a barber, and exclaimed to a brother sportsman who was standing by, “D—n if he ain’t one of the right sort! eh, Harry?” But if the uncle was pleased with the lad’s appearance, much more delighted was he with his accomplishments: for he could walk down any keeper on the estate, he sat on a horse like a young centaur, and his accuracy with a rifle perfectly confounded the squire. “If this isn’t a chip of the old block, my name isn’t Marmaduke Shirley,” said he; and for a moment a shade crossed his usually careless brow, as he remembered that he had wooed, and married, and been left a childless widower.

But although, at Shirley Hall, Reginald followed the sports of the field with the ardour natural to his age and character, he rather annoyed the squire by his obstinate and persevering attention to his studies at college: he remembered that walking and shooting were accomplishments which he might have acquired and perfected in the woods of Virginia; but he felt it due to his parents, and to the confidence which they had reposed in his discretion, to carry back with him some more useful knowledge and learning.

With this dutiful motive, he commenced his studies; and as he advanced in them, his naturally quick intellect seized on and appreciated the beauties presented to it. Authors, in whose writings he had imagined and expected little else but difficulties, soon became easy and familiar; and what he had imposed upon himself from a high principle as a task, proved, ere long, a source of abundant pleasure.

In the vacations he visited his good–humoured uncle, who never failed to rally him as a “Latin–monger” and a book–worm: but Reginald bore the jokes with temper not less merry than his uncle’s; and whenever, after a hard run, he had “pounded” the squire or the huntsman, he never failed to retaliate by answering the compliments paid him on his riding with some such jest as, “Pretty well for a book–worm, uncle.” It soon became evident to all the tenants, servants, and indeed to the whole neighbourhood, that Reginald exercised a despotic influence over the squire, who respected internally those literary attainments in his nephew which he affected to ridicule.

When Reginald had taken his degree, which he did with high honour and credit, he felt an ardent desire to visit his friend and school–fellow, Edward Ethelston, in Germany: he was also anxious to see something of the Continent, and to study the foreign languages. This wish he expressed without circumlocution to the squire, who received the communication with undisguised disapprobation: “What the devil can the boy want to go abroad for? not satisfied with wasting two or three years poking over Greek, Latin, mathematics, and other infernal ‘atics’ and ‘ologies,’ now you must go across the Channel to eat sour–krout, soup–maigre, and frogs! I won’t hear of it, sir;” and in order to keep his wrath warm, the squire poked the fire violently.

In spite of this determination, Reginald, as usual, carried his point, and in a few weeks was on board a packet bound for Hamburgh, his purse being well filled by the squire, who told him to see all that could be seen, and “not to let any of those Mounseers top him at any thing.” Reginald was also provided with letters of credit to a much larger amount than he required; but the first hint which he gave of a wish to decline a portion of the squire’s generosity raised such a storm, that our hero was fain to submit.

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Chapter IV

CONTAINING SUNDRY ADVENTURES OF REGINALD BRANDON AND HIS FRIEND ETHELSTON ON THE CONTINENT; ALSO SOME FURTHER PROCEEDINGS AT SQUIRE SHIRLEY’S; AND THE RETURN OF REGINALD BRANDON TO HIS HOME.—IN THIS CHAPTER THE SPORTING READER WILL FIND AN EXAMPLE OF AN UNMADE RIDER ON A MADE HUNTER.

Reginald having joined his attached and faithful friend Ethelston at Hamburgh, the young men agreed to travel together; and the intimacy of their early boyhood ripened into a mature friendship, based upon mutual esteem. In personal advantages, Reginald was greatly the superior; for although unusually tall and strongly built, such was the perfect symmetry of his proportions, that his height, and the great muscular strength of his chest and limbs, were carried off by the grace with which he moved, and by the air of high breeding by which he was distinguished: his countenance was noble and open in expression; and though there was a fire in his dark eye which betokened passions easily aroused, still there was a frankness on the brow, and a smile around the mouth, that told of a nature at once kindly, fearless, and without suspicion.

Ethelston, who was, be it remembered, three years older than his friend, was of middle stature, but active, and well proportioned: his hair and eyebrows were of the jettest black, and his countenance thoughtful and grave; but there was about the full and firm lip an expression of determination not to be mistaken. Habits of study and reflection had already written their trace upon his high and intellectual brow; so that one who saw him for the first time might imagine him only a severe student; but ere he had seen him an hour in society, he would pronounce him a man of practical and commanding character. The shade of melancholy, which was almost habitual on his countenance, dated from the death of his father, brought prematurely by sorrow to his grave, and from the loss of his little sister, to whom he had been tenderly attached. The two friends loved each other with the affection of brothers; and after the separation of the last few years, each found in the other newly developed qualities to esteem.

The state of Europe during the autumn of 1795 not being favourable for distant excursions, Ethelston contented himself with showing his friend all objects worthy of his attention in the north of Germany, and at the same time assisted him in attaining its rich though difficult language. By associating much, during the winter, with the students from the universities, Reginald caught some of their enthusiasm respecting the defence of their country from the arms of the French republic: he learnt that a large number of Ethelston’s acquaintances at Hamburgh had resolved in the spring to join a corps of volunteers from the Hanseatic towns, destined to fight under the banner of the Archduke Charles: to their own surprise, our two friends were carried away by the stream, and found themselves enrolled in a small but active and gallant band of sharpshooters, ordered to act on the flank of a large body of Austrian infantry. More than once the impetuous courage of Reginald had nearly cost him his life; and in the action at Amberg, where the Archduke defeated General Bernadotte, he received two wounds, such as would have disabled a man of less hardy constitution. It was in vain that Ethelston, whose bravery was tempered by unruffled coolness, urged his friend to expose himself less wantonly; Reginald always promised it, but in the excitement of the action always forgot the promise.

After he had recovered from his wounds, his commanding officer, who had noticed his fearless daring, a quality so valuable in the skirmishing duty to which his corps were appointed, sent for him, and offered to promote him. “Sir,” said Reginald, modestly, “I thank you heartily, but I must decline the honour you propose to me. I am too inexperienced to lead others; my friend and comrade, Ethelston, is three years my senior; in action he is always by my side, sometimes before me; he has more skill or riper judgment; any promotion, that should prefer me before him, would be most painful to me.” He bowed and withdrew. On the following day, the same officer, who had mentioned Reginald’s conduct to the Archduke, presented both the friends, from him, with a gold medal of the Emperor; a distinction the more gratifying to Reginald, from his knowledge that he had been secretly the means of bringing his friend’s merit into the notice of his commander.

They served through the remainder of that campaign, when the arms of the contending parties met with alternate success: towards its close, the Archduke having skilfully effected his object of uniting his forces to the corps d’armée under General Wartenleben, compelled the French to evacuate Franconia, and to retire towards Switzerland.

This retreat was conducted with much skill by General Moreau; several times did the French rear–guard make an obstinate stand against the pursuers, among whom Reginald and his comrades were always the foremost. On one occasion, the French army occupied a position so strong that they were not driven from it without heavy loss on both sides; and even after the force of numbers had compelled the main body to retire, there remained a gallant band who seemed resolved to conquer or die upon the field. In vain did the Austrian leaders, in admiration of their devoted valour, call to them to surrender: without yielding an inch of ground, they fell fighting where they stood. Reginald made the most desperate efforts to save their young commander, whose chivalrous appearance and brilliantly decorated uniform made him remarkable from a great distance: several times did he strike aside a barrel pointed at the French officer; but it was too late; and when at length, covered with dust, and sweat, and blood, he reached the spot, he found the young hero, whom he had striven to save, stretched on the ground by several mortal wounds in his breast; he saw, however, Reginald’s kind intention, smiled gratefully upon him, waved his sword over his head, and died.

The excitement of the battle was over; and leaning on his sword, Reginald still bent over the noble form and marble features of the young warrior at his feet; and he sighed deeply when he thought how suddenly had this flower of manly beauty been cut down. “Perhaps,” said he, half aloud, “some now childless mother yet waits for this last prop of her age and name; or some betrothed lingers at her window, and wonders why he so long delays.”

Ethelston was at his side, his eyes also bent sadly upon the same object: the young friends interchanged a warm and silent grasp of the hand, each feeling that he read the heart of the other! At this moment, a groan escaped from a wounded man, who was half buried under the bleeding bodies of his comrades: with some difficulty Reginald dragged him out from below them, and the poor fellow thanked him for his humanity: he had only received a slight wound on the head from a spent ball, which had stunned him for the time; but he soon recovered from its effects, and looking around, he saw the body of the young commander stretched on the plain.

“Ah, mon pauvre Général!” he exclaimed: and on further inquiry, Reginald learnt that it was indeed the gallant, the admired, the beloved General Marceau, whose brilliant career was thus untimely closed.

“I will go,” whispered Ethelston, “and bear these tidings to the Archduke; meantime, Reginald, guard the honoured remains from the camp–spoiler and the plunderer.” So saying he withdrew: and Reginald, stooping over the prostrate form before him, stretched it decently, closed the eyes, and, throwing a mantle over the splendid uniform, sat down to indulge in the serious meditations inspired by the scene.

He was soon aroused from them by the poor fellow whom he had dragged forth, who said to him, “Sir, I yield myself your prisoner.”

“And who are you, my friend?”

“I was courier, valet, and cook to M. de Vareuil, aide–de–camp to the General Marceau; both lie dead together before you.”

“And what is your name, my good fellow?”

“Gustave Adolphe Montmorenci Perrot.”

“A fair string of names, indeed,” said Reginald, smiling. “But pray, Monsieur Perrot, how came you here? are you a soldier as well as a courier?”

“Monsieur does me too much honour,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders. “I only came from the baggage–train with a message to my master, and your avant–garde peppered us so hotly that I could not get back again. I am not fond of fighting: but somehow, when I saw poor Monsieur de Vareuil in so sad a plight, I did not wish to leave him.”

Reginald looked at the speaker, and thought he had never seen in one face such a compound of slyness and honesty, drollery and sadness. He did not, however, reply, and relapsed into his meditation. Before five minutes had passed, Monsieur Perrot, as if struck by a sudden idea, fell on his knees before Reginald, and said,

“Monsieur has saved my life—will he grant me yet one favour?”

“If within my power,” said Reginald, good–humouredly.

“Will Monsieur take me into his service? I have travelled over all Europe; I have lived long in Paris, London, Vienna; I may be of use to Monsieur; but I have no home now.”

“Nay, but Monsieur Perrot, I want no servant; I am only a volunteer with the army.”

“I see what Monsieur is,” said Perrot, archly, “in spite of the dust and blood with which he is disfigured. I will ask no salary; I will share your black bread, if you are poor, and will live in your pantry, if you are rich: I only want to serve you.”

Monsieur Perrot’s importunity overruled all the objections that Reginald could raise; and he at last consented to the arrangement, provided the former, after due reflection, should adhere to his wish.

Ethelston meanwhile returned with the party sent by the Archduke to pay the last token of respect to the remains of the youthful General. They were interred with all the military honours due to an officer whose reputation was, considering his years, second to none in France, save that of Napoleon himself.

After the ceremony, Monsieur Perrot, now on parole not to bear arms against Austria, obtained leave to return to the French camp for a week, in order to “arrange his affairs,” at the expiration of which he promised to rejoin his new master. Ethelston blamed Reginald for his thoughtlessness in engaging this untried attendant. The latter, however, laughed at his friend, and said, “Though he is such a droll–looking creature, I think there is good in him; at all events, rest assured I will not trust him far without trial.”

A few weeks after these events, General Moreau having effected his retreat into Switzerland, an armistice was concluded on the Rhine between the contending armies; and Reginald could no longer resist the imperative commands of his uncle to return to Shirley Hall. Monsieur Gustave Adolphe Montmorenci Perrot had joined his new master, with a valise admirably stocked, and wearing a peruke of a most fashionable cut. Ethelston shrewdly suspected that these had formed part of Monsieur de Vareuil’s wardrobe, and his dislike of Reginald’s foppish valet was not thereby diminished.

On the route to Hamburgh the friends passed through many places where the luxuries, and even the necessaries of life, had been rendered scarce by the late campaign. Here Perrot was in his element; fatigue seemed to be unknown to him; he was always ready, active, useful as a courier, and unequalled as a cook or a caterer; so that Ethelston was compelled to confess, that if he only proved honest, Reginald had indeed found a treasure.

At Hamburgh the two friends took an affectionate farewell, promising to meet each other in the course of the following year on the banks of the Ohio. Reginald returned to his uncle, who stormed dreadfully when he learnt that he had brought with him a French valet, and remained implacable, in spite of the circumstances under which he had been engaged; until one morning, when a footman threw down the tray on which he was carrying up the squire’s breakfast of beef–steaks and stewed kidneys, half an hour before “the meet” at his best cover–side. What could now be done? The cook was sulky, and sent word that there were no more steaks nor kidneys to be had. The squire was wrath and hungry. Reginald laughed, and said, “Uncle, send for Perrot.”

“Perrot be d—d!” cried the squire. “Does the boy think I want some pomatum? What else can that coxcomb give me?”

“May I try him, uncle?” said Reginald, still laughing.

“You may try him: but if he plays any of his jackanapes pranks, I’ll tan his hide for him, I promise you!”

Reginald having rung for Perrot, pointed to the remains of the good things which a servant was still gathering up, and said to him, “Send up breakfast for Mr. Shirley and myself in one quarter of an hour from this minute: you are permitted to use what you find in the larder; but be punctual.”

Perrot bowed, and, without speaking, disappeared.

“The devil take the fellow! he has some sense,” said the angry squire; “he can receive an order without talking; one of my hulking knaves would have stood there five minutes out of the fifteen, saying, ‘Yes, sir; I’ll see what can be done;’ or, ‘I’ll ask Mr. Alltripe,’ or some other infernal stuff. Come, Reginald, look at your watch. Let us stroll to the stable; we’ll be back to a minute; and if that fellow plays any of his French tricks upon me, I’ll give it him.” So saying, the jolly squire cut the head off one of his gardener’s favourite plants with his hunting whip, and led the way to the stable.

We may now return to Monsieur Perrot, and see how he set about the discharge of his sudden commission; but it may be necessary, at the same time, to explain one or two particulars not known to his master or to the squire. Monsieur Perrot was very gallant, and his tender heart had been smitten by the charms of Mary, the still–room maid; it so happened on this very morning that he had prepared slyly, as a surprise, a little déjeûner à la fourchette, with which he intended to soften Mary’s obduracy. We will not inquire how he had obtained the mushroom, the lemon, and the sundry other good things with which he was busily engaged in dressing a plump hen–pheasant, when he received the above unexpected summons. Monsieur Perrot’s vanity was greater than either his gourmandise or his love; and, without hesitation, he determined to sacrifice to it the hen–pheasant: his first step was to run to the still–room; and having stolen a kiss from Mary, and received a box on the ear as a reward, he gave her two or three very brief but important hints for the coffee, which was to be made immediately; he then turned his attention to the hen–pheasant, sliced some bacon, cut up a ham, took possession of a whole basket of eggs, and flew about the kitchen with such surprising activity, and calling for so many things at once, that Mr. Alltripe left his dominion, and retired to his own room in high dudgeon.

Meanwhile the squire, having sauntered through the stables with Reginald, and enlightened him with various comments upon the points and qualities of his favourite hunters, took out his watch, and exclaimed, “The time is up, my boy; let us go in and see what your precious mounseer has got for us.” As they entered the library, Monsieur opened the opposite door, and announced breakfast as quietly and composedly as if no unusual demand had been made upon his talents. The squire led the way into the breakfast–room, and was scarcely more surprised than was Reginald himself at the viands that regaled his eye on the table. In addition to the brown and white loaves, the rolls, and other varieties of bread, there smoked on one dish the delicate salmi of pheasant, on another the squire’s favourite dish of bacon, with poached eggs, and on a third a most tempting omelette au jambon.

Marmaduke Shirley opened his eyes and mouth wide with astonishment, as Monsieur Perrot offered him, one after another, these delicacies, inquiring, with undisturbed gravity, if “Monsieur desired any thing else? as there were other dishes ready below?”

“Other dishes! why, man, here’s a breakfast for a court of aldermen,” said the squire; and having ascertained that the things were as agreeable to the taste as to the eye, and that the coffee was more clear and high–flavoured than he had ever tasted before, he seized his nephew’s hand, saying, “Reginald, my boy, I give in; your Master Perrot’s a trump, and no man shall ever speak a word against him in this house! A rare fellow!” Here he took another turn at the omelette; “hang me if he shan’t have a day’s sport;” and the squire chuckling at the idea that had suddenly crossed him, rang the bell violently: “Tell Repton,” said he to the servant who entered, “to saddle ‘Rattling Bess,’ for Monsieur Perrot, and to take her to the cover–side with the other horses at ten.”

“She kicks a bit at starting,” added he to Reginald; “but she’s as safe as a mill; and though she rushes now and then at the fences, she always gets through or over ‘em.”

Now it was poor Perrot’s turn to be astonished. To do him justice, he was neither a bad horseman (as a courier) nor a coward; but he had never been out with hounds, and the enumeration of “Rattling Bess’” qualities did not sound very attractive to his ear: he began gently to make excuses, and to decline the proposed favour: he had not the “proper dress:”—“he had much to do for Monsieur’s wardrobe at home:” but it was all to no purpose, the squire was determined; Repton’s coat and breeches would fit him, and go he must.

With a rueful look at his master, Perrot slunk off, cursing in his heart the salmi and the omelette, which had procured him this undesired favour: but he was ordered to lose no time in preparing himself; so he first endeavoured to get into Mr. Repton’s clothes: that proved impossible, as Mr. R. had been a racing jockey, and was a feather–weight, with legs like nutcrackers. Having no time for deliberation, Monsieur Perrot drew from his valise the courier suit which he had worn in France; and to the surprise of the whole party assembled at the door, he appeared clad in a blue coat turned up with yellow, a cornered hat, and enormous boots, half a foot higher than his knees. He was ordered to jump up behind the squire’s carriage, and away they went to the cover–side, amid the ill–suppressed titter of the grooms and footmen, and the loud laughter of the maids, whose malicious faces, not excepting that of Mary, were at the open windows below.

When they reached the place appointed for “the meet,” and proceeded to mount the impatient horses awaiting them, Perrot eyed with no agreeable anticipation the long ears of Rattling Bess laid back, and the restless wag of her rat–tail, and he ventured one more attempt at an escape. “Really, sir,” said he to the squire, “I never hunted, and I don’t think I can manage that animal; she looks very savage.”

“Never mind her, Monsieur Perrot,” said the squire, enjoying the poor valet’s ill–dissembled uneasiness. “She knows her business here as well as any whipper–in or huntsman; only let her go her own way, and you’ll never be far from the brush.”

“Very well,” muttered Perrot; “I hope she knows her business; I know mine, and that is to keep on her back, which I’ll do as well as I can.”

The eyes of the whole field were upon this strangely attired figure; and as soon as he got into the saddle, “Rattling Bess” began to kick and plunge violently: we have said that he was not in some respects a bad horseman; and although in this, her first prank, he lost one of his stirrups, and his cornered hat fell off, he contrived to keep both his seat and his temper: while the hounds were drawing the cover, one of the squire’s grooms restored the hat, and gave him a string wherewith to fasten it, an operation which he had scarcely concluded, when the inspiring shouts of “Tally ho,” “Gone away,” “Forward,” rang on his ears. “Rattling Bess” seemed to understand the sounds as well as ever alderman knew a dinner–bell; and away she went at full gallop, convincing Monsieur Perrot, after an ineffectual struggle of a few minutes on his part, that both the speed and direction of her course were matters over which he could not exercise the smallest influence.

On they flew, over meadow and stile, ditch and hedge, nothing seemed to check Rattling Bess; and while all the field were in astonished admiration at the reckless riding of the strange courier, that worthy was catching his breath, and muttering through his teeth, “Diable d’animal, she have a mouth so hard, like one of Mr. Alltripe’s bif–steak,—she know her business—and a sacré business it is—holà there! mind yourself!” shouted he, at the top of his voice, to a horseman whose horse had fallen in brushing through a thick hedge, and was struggling to rise on the other side just as Rattling Bess followed at tremendous speed over the same place; lighting upon the hind–quarters of her hapless predecessor, and scraping all the skin off his loins, she knocked the rider head over heels into the ploughed field, where his face was buried a foot deep in dirty mould: by a powerful effort she kept herself from falling, and went gallantly over the field; Perrot still muttering, as he tugged at the insensible mouth, “She know her business, she kill dat poor devil in the dirt, she kill herself and me too.”

A few minutes later, the hounds, having overrun the scent, came to a check, and were gathered by the huntsman into a green lane, from whence they were about to “try back” as Rattling Bess came up at unabated speed. “Hold hard there, hold hard!” shouted at once the huntsman, the whips, and the few sportsmen who were up with the hounds. “Where the devil are you going, man?” “The fox is viewed back.” “Halloo!—you’re riding into the middle of the pack.” These and similar cries scarcely had time to reach the ears of Perrot, ere “Rattling Bess” sprang over the hedge into a green lane, and coming down upon the unfortunate dogs, split the head of one, broke the back of another, and, laming two or three more, carried her rider over the opposite fence, who, still panting for breath, with his teeth set, muttered, “She know her business, sacré animal.”

After crossing two more fields, she cleared a hedge, so thick that he could not see what was on the other side; but he heard a tremendous crash, and was only conscious of being hurled with violence to the ground: slowly recovering his senses, he saw Rattling Bess lying a few yards from him, bleeding profusely; and his own ears were saluted by the following compassionate inquiry from the lips of a gardener, who was standing over him, spade in hand: “D—n your stupid outlandish head, what be you a doin’ here?”

The half–stunned courier, pointing to Rattling Bess, replied: “She know her business.”

The gardener, though enraged at the entire demolition of his melon–bed, and of sundry forced vegetables under glass, was not an ill–tempered fellow in the main; and seeing that the horse was half killed, and the rider, a foreigner, much bruised, he assisted poor Perrot to rise; and having gathered from him that he was in the service of rich Squire Shirley, rendered all the aid in his power to him and to Rattling Bess, who had received some very severe cuts from the glass.

When the events of the day came to be talked over at the Hall, and it proved that it was the squire himself whom Perrot had so unceremoniously ridden over,—that the huntsman would expect some twenty guineas for the hounds killed or maimed—that the gardener would probably present a similar or a larger account for a broken melon–bed and shivered glass—and that Rattling Bess was lame for the season, the squire did not encourage much conversation on the day’s sport; the only remark that he was heard to make, being, “What a fool I was to put a frog–eating Frenchman on an English hunter!”

Monsieur Perrot remained in his room for three or four days, not caring that Mary should see his visage while it was adorned with a black eye and an inflamed nose.

Soon after this eventful chase, Reginald obtained his uncle’s leave to obey his father’s wishes by visiting Paris for a few months. His stay there was shortened by a letter which he received from his sister Lucy, announcing to him his mother’s illness; on the receipt of which he wrote a few hurried lines of explanation to his uncle, and sailed by the first ship for Philadelphia, accompanied by the faithful Perrot, and by a large rough dog of the breed of the old Irish wolf–hound, given to him by the squire.

On arriving, he found his mother better than he had expected; and, as he kissed off the tears of joy which Lucy shed on his return, he whispered to her his belief that she had a little exaggerated their mother’s illness, in order to recall him. After a short time, Ethelston also returned, and joined the happy circle assembled at Colonel Brandon’s.

It was now the spring of 1797, between which time and that mentioned as the date of our opening chapter, a period of nearly two years, nothing worthy of peculiar record occurred. Reginald kept up a faithful correspondence with his kind uncle, whose letters showed how deeply he felt his nephew’s absence. Whether Monsieur Perrot interchanged letters with Mary, or consoled himself with the damsels on the banks of the Ohio, the following pages may show. His master made several hunting excursions, on which he was always accompanied by Baptiste, a sturdy backwoodsman, who was more deeply attached to Reginald than to any other being on earth; and Ethelston had, as we have before explained, undertaken the whole charge of his guardian’s vessels, with one of the largest of which he was, at the commencement of our tale, absent in the West India Islands.

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Chapter V

AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS.—REGINALD BRANDON MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

It was a bright morning in April; the robin was beginning his early song, the woodpecker darted his beak against the rough bark, and the squirrel hopped merrily from bough to bough among the gigantic trees of the forest, as two hunters followed a winding path which led to a ferry across the Muskingum river.

One was a powerful athletic young man, with a countenance strikingly handsome, and embrowned by exercise and exposure: his dress was a hunting shirt, and leggings of deer–skin; his curling brown locks escaped from under a cap of wolf–skin; and his mocassins, firmly secured round the ankle, were made from the tough hide of a bear: he carried in his hand a short rifle of heavy calibre, and an ornamented couteau–de–chasse hung at his belt. His companion, lower in stature, but broad, sinewy, and weather–beaten, seemed to be some fifteen or twenty years the elder: his dress was of the same material, but more soiled and worn; his rifle was longer and heavier; and his whole appearance that of a man to whom all inclemencies of season were indifferent, all the dangers and hardships of a western hunter’s life familiar; but the most remarkable part of his equipment was an enormous axe, the handle studded with nails, and the head firmly riveted with iron hoops.

“Well, Master Reginald,” said the latter; “we must hope to find old Michael and his ferry–boat at the Passage des Rochers, for the river is much swollen, and we might not easily swim it with dry powder.”

“What reason have you to doubt old Michael’s being found at his post?” said Reginald: “we have often crossed there, and have seldom found him absent.”

“True, master; but he has of late become very lazy; and he prefers sitting by his fire, and exchanging a bottle of fire–water with a strolling Ingian for half a dozen good skins, to tugging a great flat–bottomed boat across the Muskingum during the March floods.”

“Baptiste,” said the young man, “it grieves me to see the reckless avidity with which spirits are sought by the Indians; and the violence, outrage, and misery which is the general consequence of their dram–drinking.”

“Why you see, there is something very good in a cup of West Ingy rum.” Here Baptiste’s hard features were twisted into a grin irresistibly comic, and he proceeded: “It warms the stomach and the heart; and the savages, when they once taste it, suck at a bottle by instinct, as natural as a six–weeks’ cub at his dam. I often wonder, Master Reginald, why you spoil that fine eau de vie which little Perrot puts into your hunting flask, by mixing with it a quantity of water! In my last trip to the mountains, where I was first guide and turpret[2], they gave me a taste now and then, and I never found it do me harm; but the nature of an Ingian is different, you know.”

“Well, Baptiste,” said Reginald, smiling at his follower’s defence of his favourite beverage; “I will say that I never knew you to take more than you could carry; but your head is as strong as your back, and you sometimes prove the strength of both.”

The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the report of Reginald’s rifle, and a grey squirrel fell from the top of a hickory, where he was feasting in fancied security. Baptiste took up the little animal, and having examined it attentively, shook his head gravely, saying, “Master Reginald, there is not a quicker eye, nor a truer hand in the territory, but—“

As he hesitated to finish the sentence, Reginald added, laughing, “but—but—I am an obstinate fellow, because I will not exchange my favourite German rifle, with its heavy bullet, for a long Virginia barrel, with a ball like a pea; is it not so, Baptiste?”

The guide’s natural good–humour struggled with prejudices which, on this subject, had been more than once wounded by his young companion, as he replied, “Why, Master Reginald, the deer, whose saddle is on my shoulder, found my pea hard enough to swallow; and look here, at this poor little vermint, whom you have just killed,—there is a hole in his neck big enough to let the life out of a grisly bear; you have hit him nearly an inch further back than I taught you to aim before you went across the great water, and learnt all kinds of British and German notions!”

Reginald smiled at the hunter’s characteristic reproof, and replied, in a tone of kindness, “Well, Baptiste, all that I do know of tracking a deer, or lining a bee, or of bringing down one of these little vermint, I learnt first from you; and if I am a promising pupil, the credit is due to Baptiste, the best hunter in forest or prairie!”

A glow of pleasure passed over the guide’s sunburnt countenance; and grasping in his hard and horny fingers his young master’s hand, he said, “Thank’ee, Master Reginald; and as for me, though I’m only a poor ‘Coureur des bois,’[3] I a’n’t feared to back my pupil against any man that walks, from Dan Boone, of Kentucky, to Bloody–hand, the great war–chief of the Cayugas.”

As he spoke, they came in sight of the river, and the blue smoke curling up among the trees showed our travellers that they had not missed their path to Michael’s log–house and ferry. “What have we here?” exclaimed Baptiste, catching his companion by the arm; “’tis even as I told you; the old rogue is smoking his pipe over a glass of brandy in his kitchen corner; and there is a wild–looking Indian pulling himself across with three horses in that crazy batteau, almost as old and useless as its owner!”

“He will scarcely reach the opposite bank,” said Reginald; “the river is muddy and swollen with melted snow, and his horses seem disposed to be unquiet passengers.”

They had now approached near enough to enable them to distinguish the features of the Indian in the boat: the guide scanned them with evident surprise and interest; the result of which was, a noise which broke from him, something between a grunt and a whistle, as he muttered, “What can have brought him here?”

“Do you know that fine–looking fellow, then?” inquired Reginald.

“Know him, Master Reginald—does Wolf know Miss Lucy?—does a bear know a bee tree? I should know him among a thousand red–skins, though he were twice as well disguised. Tête–bleu, master, look at those wild brutes how they struggle; he and they will taste Muskingum water before long.”

While he was speaking one of the horses reared, another kicked furiously, the shallow flat boat was upset, and both they and the Indian fell headlong into the river. They had been secured together by a “laryette,” or thong of hide, which unfortunately came athwart the Indian’s shoulder, and thus he was held below the water, while the struggles of the frightened animals rendered it impossible for him to extricate himself. “He is entangled in the laryette,” said the guide; “nothing can save him,” he added in a grave and sadder tone. “’Tis a noble youth, and I would have wished him a braver death! What are you doing, Master Reginald?—are you mad? No man can swim in that torrent. For your father’s sake—“

But his entreaties and attempts to restrain his impetuous companion were fruitless, for Reginald had already thrown on the ground his leathern hunting shirt, his rifle, and ammunition; and shaking off the grasp of the guide as if the latter had been a child, he plunged into the river, and swam to the spot where the feebler struggles of the horses showed that they were now almost at the mercy of the current. When he reached them, Reginald dived below the nearest, and dividing the laryette with two or three successful strokes of his knife, brought the exhausted Indian to the surface. For a moment, he feared that he had come too late; but on inhaling a breath of air, the red–skin seemed to regain both consciousness and strength, and was able in his turn to assist Reginald, who had received, when under water, a blow on the head from the horse’s hoof, the blood flowing fast from the wound. Short but expressive was the greeting exchanged as they struck out for the bank, which one of the horses had already gained: another was bruised, battered, and tossed about among some shelving rocks lower down the river; and the third was being fast hurried towards the same dangerous spot, when the Indian, uttering a shrill cry, turned and swam again towards this, his favourite horse, and by a great exertion of skill and strength, brought it to a part of the river where the current was less rapid, and thence led it safely ashore.

These events had passed in less time than their narration has occupied: and the whole biped and quadruped party now stood drenched and dripping on the bank. The two young men gazed at each other in silence, with looks of mingled interest and admiration: indeed, if a sculptor had desired to place together two different specimens of youthful manhood, in which symmetry and strength were to be gracefully united, he could scarcely have selected two finer models: in height they might be about equal; and though the frame and muscular proportions of Reginald were more powerful, there was a roundness and compact knitting of the joints, and a sinewy suppleness in the limbs of his new acquaintance, such as he thought he had never seen equalled in statuary or in life. The Indian’s gaze was so fixed and piercing, that Reginald’s eye wandered more than once from his countenance to the belt, where his war–club was still suspended by a thong, the scalp–knife in its sheath, and near it a scalp, evidently that of a white man, and bearing the appearance of having been recently taken.

With a slight shudder of disgust, he raised his eyes again to the chiselled features of the noble–looking being before him, and felt assured that though they might be those of a savage warrior, they could not be those of a lurking assassin. The Indian now moved a step forward, and taking Reginald’s hand, placed it upon his own heart, saying distinctly in English, “My brother!”

Reginald understood and appreciated this simple expression of gratitude and friendship; he imitated his new friend’s action, and evinced, both by his looks and the kindly tones of his voice, the interest which, to his own surprise, the Indian had awakened in his breast.

At this juncture they were joined by the guide, who had paddled himself across in a canoe that he found at the ferry, which was two hundred yards above the spot where they now stood. At his approach, the young Indian resumed his silent attitude of repose; while, apparently unconscious of his presence, Baptiste poured upon his favourite a mingled torrent of reproofs and congratulations.

“Why, Master Reginald, did the mad spirit possess you to jump into the Muskingum, and dive like an otter, where the water was swift and dark as the Niagara rapids! Pardie, though, it was bravely done! another minute, and our red–skin friend would have been in the hunting–ground of his forefathers. Give me your hand, master; I love you better than ever! I had a mind to take a duck myself after ye; but thought, if bad luck came, I might serve ye better with the canoe.” While rapidly uttering these broken sentences, he handed to Reginald the hunting–shirt, rifle, and other things, which he had brought over in the canoe, and wrung the water out of his cap, being all the time in a state of ill–dissembled excitement. This done, he turned to the young Indian, who was standing aside, silent and motionless. The guide scanned his features with a searching look, and then muttered audibly, “I knew it must be he.”

A gleam shot from the dark eye of the Indian, proving that he heard and understood the phrase, but not a word escaped his lips.

Reginald, unable to repress his curiosity, exclaimed, “Must be who, Baptiste? Who is my Indian friend—my brother?”

A lurking smile played round the mouth of the guide, as he said in a low tone to the Indian, “Does the paint on my brother’s face tell a tale? Is his path in the night? Must his name dwell between shut lips?”

To this last question the Indian, moving forward with that peculiar grace and innate dignity which characterised all his movements, replied, “The War–Eagle hides his name from none: his cry is heard from far, and his path is straight: a dog’s scalp is at his belt!” Here he paused a moment; and added, in a softened tone, “But the bad Spirit prevailed: the waters were too strong for him; the swimming–warrior’s knife came; and again the War–Eagle saw the light.”

“And found a brother—is it not so?” added Reginald.

“It is so!” replied the Indian: and there was a depth of pathos in the tone of his voice as he spoke, which convinced Reginald that those words came from the heart.

“There were three horses with you in the bac,” said the guide: “two are under yonder trees;—where is the third?”

“Dead, among those rocks below the rapids,” answered War–Eagle, quietly. “He was a fool, and was taken from a fool, and both are now together;” as he spoke he pointed scornfully to the scalp which hung at his belt.

Reginald and Baptiste interchanged looks of uneasy curiosity, and then directing their eyes towards the distant spot indicated by the Indian, they distinguished the battered carcass of the animal, partly hid by the water, and partly resting against the rock, which prevented it from floating down with the current.

The party now turned towards the horses among the trees; which, after enjoying themselves by rolling in the grass, were feeding, apparently unconscious of their double misdemeanor, in having first upset the bac, and then nearly drowned their master by their struggles in the water. As Reginald and his two companions approached, an involuntary exclamation of admiration burst from him.

“Heavens, Baptiste! did you ever see so magnificent a creature as that with the laryette round his neck? And what a colour! it seems between chestnut and black! Look at his short, wild head, his broad forehead, his bold eye, and that long silky mane falling below his shoulder! Look, also, at his short back and legs! Why, he has the beauty of a barb joined to the strength of an English hunter!”

It may be well imagined that the greater portion of this might have been a soliloquy, as Baptiste understood but few, the Indian none, of the expressions which Reginald uttered with enthusiastic rapidity. Both, however, understood enough to know that he was admiring the animal, and both judged that his admiration was not misplaced.

Our hero (for so we must denominate Reginald Brandon) approached to handle and caress the horse; but the latter, with erect ears and expanded nostrils, snorted an indignant refusal of these civilities and trotted off, tossing high his mane as if in defiance of man’s dominion. At this moment, the War–Eagle uttered a shrill, peculiar cry, when immediately the obedient horse came to his side, rubbing his head against his master’s shoulder, and courting those caresses which he had so lately and so scornfully refused from Reginald.

While the docile and intelligent animal thus stood beside him, a sudden ray of light sparkled in the Indian’s eye, as with rapid utterance, not unmingled with gesticulation, he said, “The War–Eagle’s path was toward the evening sun; his tomahawk drank the Camanchee’s blood; the wild horse was swift, and strong, and fierce; the cunning man on the evening prairie said he was Nekimi[4],—‘the Great Spirit’s angry breath;’ but the War–Eagle’s neck–bullet struck—“

At this part of the narrative, the guide, carried away by the enthusiasm of the scene described, ejaculated, in the Delaware tongue, “That was bravely done!”

For a moment the young Indian paused; and then, with increased rapidity and vehemence, told in his own language how he had captured and subdued the horse; which faithful creature, seemingly anxious to bear witness to the truth of his master’s tale, still sought and returned his caresses. The Indian, however, was not thereby deterred from the purpose which had already made his eye flash with pleasure. Taking the thong in his hand, and placing it in that of Reginald, he said, resuming the English tongue, “The War–Eagle gives Nekimi to his brother. The white warrior may hunt the mastoche[5], he may overtake his enemies, he may fly from the prairie–fire when the wind is strong: Nekimi never tires!”

Reginald was so surprised at this unexpected offer, that he felt much embarrassed, and hesitated whether he ought not to decline the gift. Baptiste saw a cloud gathering on the Indian’s brow, and said in a low voice to his master, in French, “You must take the horse; a refusal would mortally offend him.” Our hero accordingly accompanied his expression of thanks with every demonstration of satisfaction and affection. Again War–Eagle’s face brightened with pleasure; but the effect upon Nekimi seemed to be very different, for he stoutly resisted his new master’s attempts at approach or acquaintance, snorting and backing at every step made by Reginald in advance.

“The white warrior must learn to speak to Nekimi,” said the Indian, quietly; and he again repeated the short, shrill cry before noticed. In vain our hero tried to imitate the sound; the horse’s ears remained deaf to his voice, and it seemed as if his new acquisition could prove but of little service to him.

War–Eagle now took Reginald aside, and smeared his hands with some grease taken from a small bladder in his girdle, and on his extending them again towards the horse, much of the fear and dislike evinced by the latter disappeared. As soon as the animal would permit Reginald to touch it, the Indian desired him to hold its nostril firmly in his hand, and placing his face by the horse’s head, to look up steadfastly into its eye for several minutes, speaking low at intervals to accustom it to his voice: he assured him that in a few days Nekimi would through this treatment become docile and obedient.

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Chapter VI

REGINALD AND BAPTISTE PAY A VISIT TO WAR–EAGLE.—AN ATTEMPT AT TREACHERY MEETS WITH SUMMARY PUNISHMENT.

The other horse being now secured, the party prepared to resume their journey; and as it appeared, after a few words whispered between the Indian and the guide, that their routes were in the same direction, they struck into the forest, Baptiste leading, followed by Reginald, and War–Eagle bringing up the rear with the two horses.

After walking a few minutes in silence, “Baptiste,” said our hero, in French, “what was the story told about the horse? I understood little of what he said in English, and none of what he spoke in his own tongue.”

“He told us, Master Reginald, that he was out on a war–party against the Camanchees, a wild tribe of Indians in the South west: they steal horses from the Mexicans, and exchange them with the Aricarás, Kioways, Pawnees, and other Missouri Indians.”

“Well, Baptiste, how did he take this swift horse with his ‘neck–bullet,’ as he called it?”

“That, Master Reginald, is the most difficult shot in the prairie; and I have known few red–skins up to it. The western hunters call it ‘creasing:’—a ball must be shot just on the upper edge of the spine where it enters the horse’s neck: if it is exactly done, the horse falls immediately, and is secured; then the wound is afterwards healed: but if the ball strikes an inch lower, the spine is missed, or the horse is killed. Few red–skins can do it,” muttered the guide; “and the ‘doctor’ here,” shaking his long rifle, “has failed more than once; but War–Eagle has said it, and there are no lies in his mouth.”

“Tell me, Baptiste,” said Reginald, earnestly; “tell me something about my brother’s history, his race, and exploits.”

“Afterwards, my young master. I know not that he understands us now; but these Indians are curious critturs in hearing; I believe if you spoke in that strange Dutch lingo which you learnt across the water, the red–skins would know how to answer you—stay,” added he, putting his rifle to his shoulder, “here is work for the doctor.”

Reginald looked in the direction of the piece, but saw nothing; and the guide, while taking his aim, still muttered to himself, “The pills are very small, but they work somewhat sharp.” Pausing a moment, he drew the trigger; and a sudden bound from under a brake, at fifty yards’ distance, was the last death–spring of the unlucky deer whose lair had not escaped the hunter’s practised eye.

“Bravely shot,” shouted Reginald; “what says War–Eagle?”

“Good,” replied the Indian.

“Nay,” said Baptiste; “there was not much in the shot; but your French waly–de–sham might have walked past those bushes without noting the twinkle of that crittur’s eye. Our red–skin friend saw it plain enough, I warrant you,” added he, with an inquiring look.

“War–Eagle’s path is not on the deer track,” said the young chief, with a stern gravity.

In a very few minutes an additional load of venison was across the sturdy shoulders of the guide, and the party resumed their march in silence.

They had not proceeded far, when the Indian halted, saying, “War–Eagle’s camp is near; will my white brother eat and smoke?—the sun is high; he can then return to his great wigwam.”

Reginald, who was anxious to see more of his new friend, and in whom the morning’s exercise had awakened a strong relish for a slice of broiled venison, assented at once, and desired him to lead the way.

As he was still followed by the two horses, War–Eagle was somewhat in advance of his companions, and Baptiste whispered, in French, “Beware, Master Reginald—you may fall into a trap.”

“For shame,” said the latter, colouring with indignation; “can you suspect treachery in him? Did you not yourself say he could not lie?”

“Your reproof is undeserved,” said the cool and wary hunter; “War–Eagle may not be alone, there may be turkey–buzzards with him.”

“If there be a score of vultures,” said Reginald, “I will follow him without fear—he would not lead us into harm.”

“Perhaps you are right,” was the guide’s answer; and again the party resumed their march in silence.

They soon arrived at a place where the forest was less densely wooded; some of the larger trees appeared to have been overthrown by a hurricane, and some of the lesser to have fallen by the axe. Nekimi trotted forward, as if making for a spot that he recognised, and the Indian recalled him with the same cry that he had before used, adding, however, another, and a shriller sound.

The guide shook his head, and muttered something inaudibly between his teeth, loosening at the same time the huge axe in his belt, and throwing his long rifle over his arm, ready for immediate use.

These preparations did not escape the observation of Reginald; and although he said nothing, he felt more uneasy than he cared to own; for it struck him that if the guide, who seemed to have so high an opinion of War–Eagle, was apprehensive of treachery or of some unforeseen danger, there was less ground for his own confidence.

Meantime the Indian walked composedly forward until he reached the camp[6],—a pretty spot, sheltered on the windward side by a laurel thicket, and on the other commanding a view of the open glade, and of a small stream winding its silent course towards the river which our party had so lately left.

On a grassy plot, between two venerable trees, the embers of a smouldering fire sent up the thin blue vapour which rises from the burning of green wood, several logs of which were still piled for fuel; while sundry bones and feathers, scattered at no great distance, gave sufficient evidence of recent feasting.

War–Eagle glanced hastily around his camp; and leaving Nekimi to feed at liberty, secured the less tractable horse; while he was thus employed, the guide whispered in a low voice, “There are three or four Indians here! I trace their marks on the grass, and I know it by this fire; it is a war party—there are no squaws here; Master Reginald, keep your ears and eyes open, but show no distrust; if he offers a pipe, all may yet be right.”

Although the guide said this so distinctly that Reginald heard every syllable, he was to all appearance busily engaged in throwing some dry sticks on the fire, and easing himself of the skins and the venison with which he was loaded. The Indian now took from a hollow in one of the old trees before–mentioned, a pipe, the bowl of which was of red sandstone, and the stick painted and ornamented with stained porcupine quills; he also drew out a leather bag of kinne–kinek[7]; and having filled and lighted his pipe, seated himself at a short distance from the fire, and gravely invited Reginald to sit on his right, and the guide on his left. As soon as they were seated, War–Eagle inhaled a large volume of smoke; and looking reverently up to the sky, sent forth a long whiff, as an offering to the Great Spirit; then simply saying, “My brother is welcome,” he passed the pipe to Reginald, and afterwards to Baptiste.

For some time they smoked in silence: not a sound was heard but the crackling of the wood on the fire, and the occasional chirrup of a robin in the neighbouring bushes. This silent system not suiting Reginald’s ardent temperament, he abruptly addressed the Indian as follows:—

“Has my brother come far from his people?”

A cloud gathered on the chief’s brow, and the guide thought that a storm of wrath would be excited by this unlucky question; but the Indian, looking steadily upon the frank open countenance of the speaker, replied, in a voice rather melancholy than fierce, “War–Eagle has few people: the bones of his fathers are not far!”

Our hero, anxious to dismiss a subject which seemed painful to his new friend, turned the conversation to his equipment, and observed, “My brother walks abroad without fear; he is almost without arms.”

The Indian, carelessly resting his hand upon his war–club, said (speaking rather to himself, than to his companions), “It has tasted blood: ask the Dahcotahs!”

“The Dahcotahs are dogs,” said the guide, angrily. “Their skins are red, but their hearts are white!”

War–Eagle, turning upon him a penetrating look, continued, “Grande–Hâche is a warrior; he has smoked, has feasted, has fought among the Lenapé[8]; he has struck more than one Dahcotah chief. But the Grande–Hâche cannot rest: the scalp of his mother hangs in the lodge of the Assiniboins[9]; her spirit is unquiet in the dark hunting–ground.”

The guide made no reply, but the forced compression of his lips, and the muscular contraction that passed over his sinewy frame, showed how deeply he cherished that vengeance which the Indian’s word awakened.

“This is then,” said our hero to himself, “the cause of that fierce unextinguishable hate which Baptiste has always borne to these Sioux; I cannot wonder at it.” Reginald continued, however, his conversation respecting his new friend’s equipment, in the same tone: “My brother’s war–club is strong, and that iron spike in its head is sharp; but the rifle kills from far, and the white men are not all friends to him.”

“War–Eagle has ears and eyes; he can see snakes in the grass,” was the calm reply.

“Nay, but my brother is careless,” said Reginald laughing; “Grande–Hâche, as you call him, and I are two men, both strong and armed with rifles: if we were not his brothers, the War–Eagle would be in danger.”

“The bad Spirit made the thick water and the horses too strong for War–Eagle,” said the latter, referring to the morning’s accident, “but he could not be hurt by his brother’s rifle.”

“And why so?” demanded Reginald.

“Because,” said the Indian, “the white warrior has smoked, has taken his brother’s gift, and the Great Spirit has written on his face that he cannot speak lies.”

“You are right, my brave friend,” said Reginald (not a little gratified by the untutored compliment); “but if you fall in with white men who carry rifles, and who do speak lies—how fares it with you then?”

“War–Eagle is always ready,” said he, in the same unmoved tone; “the Grande–Hâche is a great warrior—my brother will take many scalps; yet if their tongues were forked—if their hearts were bad—both would die where they now sit—they have neither ears nor eyes—but the Lenapé is a chief, they are as safe here as in the great white village.”

Though inwardly nettled at this taunt, which he felt to be not altogether undeserved, the guide took no other notice of it than to strain to the utmost those organs of sight and hearing which the red–skin had held so cheap, but in vain: the forest around them seemed wrapt in solitude and silence; the eyes of Reginald, however, served him better on this occasion. “By heaven, the Indian speaks truth,” said he; “I see them plainly—one, two, three! and we, Baptiste, are at their mercy.”

This he spoke in French, and the guide answered in the same language: “Do you see Indians, Master Reginald, where I can see naught but trees, and logs, and grass; if it is so—I am an owl, and no hunter!”

“Glance your eye,” said our hero, calmly, “to yon old fallen log, that lies fifty or sixty yards to your right, there are three small parallel lines visible there,—they are three gun–barrels; the sun shone on them a minute since, and their muzzles are directed full upon us.”

“It is true; your eyes are younger than mine, I suppose,” said the guide, apparently more disconcerted at that circumstance than at the imminent peril of their situation; he added, in a low, determined tone, “but they must shoot very true, if they wish to prevent me from taking this deep and deceitful villain with me on the long journey.”

During the whole of this conversation, War–Eagle sat in unmoved silence, occasionally puffing out a whiff from the fragrant herb in his pipe. Reginald met the unexpected danger with the straightforward, daring courage which was the characteristic of his mind; Baptiste with the cool resolution which was the result of a life of stratagems, perils, and escapes.

“War–Eagle,” said the former, “you speak true; Grande–Hâche and I have shut our eyes and ears; but they are now open; I see your warriors.”

The Indian turned his searching eye full upon the speaker; he met a look bold, open, fearless as his own. “Where can my white brother see warriors?” he inquired.

“Their guns are across yonder log,” said Reginald; “and their muzzles are pointed here.”

“It is so,” said War–Eagle; “the red men are on the war–path; they seek blood; is my white brother not afraid?”

“War–Eagle is a chief,” replied the young man; “he cannot lie,—he has said that his white brother is as safe as in the wigwam of his father!”

Again the Indian bent a scrutinising look upon the countenance of the speaker, and again met the same smile of fearless confidence. With more emotion than he had yet shown, he said, “The Great Spirit has given to my white brother the big heart of a Lenapé!”

He now made a signal to his ambuscade to come forth, on which they started up from behind the large fallen tree which had hitherto screened them, and advanced slowly towards the camp. They were three in number; two of them active looking men, of moderate stature, but of symmetrical proportions; the third a lad, apparently about seventeen years old; the faces of the two former were painted with black stripes, which gave them an appearance at once fierce and grotesque; they were lightly clad in hunting–shirts, leggins, and mocassins, all of elk–skin, and each carried a tomahawk, scalp–knife, and the gun before mentioned; the young lad carried no other weapon but the gun; his hunting–shirt was fancifully ornamented with tassels of porcupine quills, and was fastened at the waist by a belt studded with party–coloured beads; his leggins were fringed, and his mocassins were also braided with the quills of the porcupine; in figure he was slight and tall; as he drew near, Reginald thought his countenance even more remarkable than that of War–Eagle: indeed its beauty would have been almost effeminate, had it not been for the raven blackness of the hair, and the piercing fire of the dark eyes. The three came forward in silence, the lad being rather in advance of the others, and stood before the War–Eagle.

He bade them, in his own language, to be seated, and smoke the pipe with the white men. They did so, with the exception of the lad, who not being yet a warrior, passed it untouched; and when it had gone round, War–Eagle harangued his party: as he narrated the events of the morning, Reginald was struck by the deep and flexible modulation of his voice; and although he did not understand a word of the language, fancied that he knew when the chief related his immersion and subsequent preservation by the white man’s knife.

At this portion of the tale, the Indian youth made no attempt to conceal his emotion; his glistening eyes were fixed upon the speaker, and every feature of his intelligent countenance beamed with affectionate interest: as War–Eagle described his being struck under water, stunned by a blow from a horse’s foot, and that the thick water covered him, a hurried exclamation escaped from the boy’s lips; and when his chief related how the white warrior had dived, had cut the cord in which he was entangled, and had brought him again to the air and to life, the youth, no longer able to control his feelings, threw himself into Reginald’s arms, exclaiming, in good English,

“The Great Spirit reward the white warrior: he has given me back my chief—my brother!”

Our hero was no less astonished than was the guide, at such uncontrolled emotion in a youth of a nation so early taught to conceal their feelings; nor were they less surprised at the clearness and purity of accent with which he expressed himself in English.

“I only did, my boy,” said Reginald, kindly, “what you would have done had you been in my place.”

“You are a great warrior,” said the youth, running his eye over the powerful frame beside him: “Wingenund would have gone into the strong river, and would have died with the War–Eagle.”

“Is Wingenund, then, your name, my brave boy?”

“It was my forefather’s name,” said the youth, proudly. “I have yet no name; but War–Eagle says I may have one soon, and I will have no other.”

“I feel sure you will deserve your forefather’s name,” said Reginald. “What does it mean in my language?”

“It means, ‘The Beloved.’”

“The youth speaks true,” murmured the guide (who, though busily engaged in rounding off a bullet with his knife, lost not a word or gesture that passed), “he speaks only truth; I knew his forefather well: a braver and a better heart never dwelt among the Lenapé.”

The boy looked gratefully at the weather–beaten hunter; and as he cast his eyes down in silence, it would have been difficult to say whether pleasure, pride, or pain predominated in their expression.

“Tell me,” resumed Reginald, “how come you to speak English like a white man?”

“The good father and Olitipa taught me.”

Reginald looked at the guide for an explanation; that worthy personage shook his head, saying, “The boy talks riddles; but they are not hard to guess. The good father must be some missionary, or priest; and Olitipa would in their tongue signify ‘pretty prairie–fowl;’ so it is probably the name of a Delaware woman—perhaps his sister.”

“Kehella là—so it is,” said the boy: “Olitipa is in your tongue ‘pretty prairie–bird,’ and she is my sister.”

“Where is Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, amused by the youth’s naïveté.

“Far, far away, beyond the great river! But we will go back soon;—shall we not?” inquired he, looking up timidly at War–Eagle.

“Pechu lenitti,[10]” answered the chief; and leaning towards the youth, he added some words in a whisper, which made him start up to obey the orders he had received.

Reginald was not long left in ignorance of their nature, as in a few minutes the active lad had refreshed the fire, and was busy in broiling some venison steaks, which, after the exercise of the morning, sent up a steam far from unpleasant to the senses of any of those present.

“Master Reginald,” said the guide, “that silly perroquet of yours, Gustave Perrot, is always telling fine stories of what he has seen in Europe, and talking of the scent of roses, and the sweet sounds of music, till the girls in the clearins think he’s a book–author and a poet: did you ever smell any scent, or hear any music, sweeter than comes from the hissing and frizzing of those slices of fat venison after a six hours’ hunt in the woods?”

“Perhaps not,” said Reginald, laughing; “but we are only hunters, and Monsieur Perrot is a man of taste.”

“Whom have we here,” grumbled the guide, as an Indian appeared in the distance. “Friend War–Eagle, is this another of your band?”

“He is,” replied the chief: “all are now here.”

The new comer was a powerful, athletic–looking man: his face was painted one half black, and the other half striped with bars of red; the sleeves of his hunting–shirt were so short and loose, that his naked arms were visible, one of which was tatooed in the form of a lizard, and on the other he wore an armlet of brass; his leggins and mocassins were soiled and torn, and the perspiration streaming from his matted hair showed that he had travelled both far and fast. He was, like the rest, equipped with rifle, tomahawk, and scalp–knife; his countenance, as far as it could be distinguished through its disguise of paint, was expressive of cunning and ferocity. Though probably much surprised at seeing two white men sitting thus amicably with his chief, he took little notice of them, or of the rest of the party; but without asking, or being asked, any questions, seated himself on the opposite side of the fire, lighted his pipe, and smoked.

“Master Reginald,” said the guide, in French, “I do not like that fellow. I know not how he comes to be with our friend here, for he belongs to another tribe; I have seen him before.”

Meantime, the industrious lad had broiled his venison steaks, and having gathered some broad leaves, which served on this occasion for plates, he brought the first slice to Reginald, the second to Baptiste, the next to War–Eagle, and so on, until he went through the party; after which, without tasting anything himself, he took his station close to his chief and his new friend. During the meal, the Indian last arrived talked much in a suppressed voice to the one next to him, and seemed studiously to avert his eyes from his chief and the two white men.

“Tarhé,” said War–Eagle, addressing him, “is there not tassmanané[11] for the stranger? he is my brother, and his path has been long.”

Tarhé went to his “câche,” a spot not many yards distant, and taking out two or three small cakes, brought them round behind his chief, and offered one to our hero, who was in the act of receiving it, when the miscreant, drawing the knife from his girdle, aimed a blow at the back of the unsuspecting Reginald.

Nothing could have saved him from instant death, had not the gallant boy thrown himself between the savage and his victim. The knife went through his arm; and so deadly was the force by which it was guided, that it still descended, and inflicted a slight scratch on Reginald’s shoulder.

War–Eagle sprang like a tiger from the ground, and with one blow of his tremendous war–club dashed the ruffian to the earth; then turning suddenly his angry glance upon the two other Indians, he asked if they had any part in Tarhé’s plot. Neither had stirred from their seat, and both declared they had known nothing of his intention. It was well for them that the chief believed them, for this act of vile treachery had aroused all the slumbering fire within him, and the veins started like blue cords upon his temples.

Reginald’s first impulse, when he jumped upon his feet, was to hasten to the wounded youth, whose features were now lighted up by a smile of happiness. “Tell me, my brave, generous boy, are you much hurt?”

“No,” said he, “I should have been hurt if the War–Eagle’s camp had been stained with the blood of his white brother.”

The sturdy guide himself could not repress his admiration of this gallant boy’s conduct, who now stood looking intently upon War–Eagle, his features animated by excitement and by pride, and the knife still fixed up to the very handle in his arm,

“War–Eagle,” said Baptiste, “the Lenapé are men,—their boys are warriors: that dog is not a Lenapé,” added he, pointing to the prostrate body of Tarhé.

“Tah–Delamattenos[12],” said the chief indignantly. The youth now moving a step forward, came before his chief with an air of modest dignity, and slowly drew the reeking knife from his arm, while a stream of blood gushed from the wound; not a muscle of his frame trembled, not a feature varied its expression, as he said, in a voice of musical gentleness, “War–Eagle, will Wingenund allow his grandson now to bear his name?”

“Wingenund!” said War–Eagle, looking upon him with affectionate pride, “the chiefs at the Council–fire shall know that the blood of the well–beloved still flows in a young warrior’s veins.”

“My good friend,” said the guide to the chief, “you have no time to lose, the lad will bleed to death!”

Reginald sprang forward, and closing as he best could the gaping wound, bound his handkerchief tightly over it.

There was, indeed, no time to be lost; for the blood had flowed more freely than his youthful frame could endure. A painful dizziness came over him; and murmuring, almost inaudibly, “The White Warrior is safe, and Wingenund is happy,” he fell senseless into Reginald’s arms.

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Chapter VII

CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS OF THE HISTORY OF THE TWO DELAWARES AND OF BAPTISTE. THE LATTER RETURNS WITH REGINALD TO MOOSHANNE, THE RESIDENCE OF COLONEL BRANDON.

“I fear he will die!” said Reginald, in a tone of the deepest grief, as he stooped over the inanimate form of the wounded boy.

“Die!” said the War–Eagle, almost fiercely; “yes, he will die! but not by the bite of yonder serpent,” pointing to the body of the Wyandot: “He will die when the Great Spirit orders it; but before he dies, the murderers of his father shall hear his war–whoop! His tomahawk shall be red in their blood; their scalps shall hang at his belt! then Wingenund may go to his ancient people in the happy hunting fields!”

“My brother,” said Reginald, earnestly, and still supporting the insensible frame of Wingenund, “do not lead this youth to shed the white man’s blood! He cannot call back those who are gone! We have a book which the Great Spirit gave to our forefathers; it speaks His own words, and He tells us, ‘Vengeance is mine;’ and He also tells us that if we would please Him, we must forgive those who have injured us: His arrows are very sharp; His anger is fierce; His justice is sure. Leave Him to punish those bad men, and teach the ‘well–beloved’ to be the white man’s friend.”

For a minute the chief seemed buried in deep thought; then suddenly starting from his reverie, he spoke a few words in a low tone to one of his men, who instantly moved away, and disappeared in the forest.

War–Eagle then replied in a tone rather of melancholy than of reproof, “The Great Spirit never speaks to the red man in words: if He is angry, He thunders; if He is pleased, He sends rain and sunshine, to make the corn and fruits to grow, and sweet grass to fatten the deer. My brother says the Great Spirit has spoken plainly to the white man in words, and that those words are painted in a book. War–Eagle believes it because my brother’s tongue is not forked: but he would ask,—Did those white men, who came in the night like wolves to the couch of the fawn, who murdered the father, the kindred, the little sisters of Wingenund,—did those men hear the Great Spirit’s words?”

“My brother,” said Reginald, “there are among white men many wolves and serpents: men whose hands are bloody, and their tongue forked. The Great Spirit does not forbid to punish, or even to kill such men, in defence of ourselves, our wigwams, our children, or our friend. He is not angry with War–Eagle for striking down that Huron whose hand was raised to shed his brother’s blood; but when the grass of many seasons has grown over the graves of those who were injured, then the Great Spirit commands man to let his anger sleep, to bury his hatchet, and to forgive.”

“It may be so,” said War–Eagle, gravely; “the Good Father in the Western Hunting–ground has said the same; Olitipa, whose voice is like the mockingbird, and who speaks only truth, she has spoken the same; but it is very dark, War–Eagle cannot see it.”

“Who is the Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, whose curiosity had twice been excited by the mention of this extraordinary name.

Before the chief could reply, the Indian, whom he had sent, returned with a mess made from several leaves, herbs, and roots, which he had bruised and reduced to a kind of glutinous pulp. War–Eagle now took off the bandage from the youth’s arm: after examining it carefully, and applying some of the above mixture to both the orifices of the wound, he bound it again, more strongly and skilfully than before; then taking him in his arms, as if he had been a little child, he carried him down to the rivulet; and by dint of bathing his temples and rubbing forcibly his hands and feet, soon restored the suspended animation.

When he was recovered so far as to be able to speak, Reginald, sitting down by him, said a thousand kind things to him, such as were prompted by the gratitude of a generous heart.

While they were conversing, the guide drew near to the chief; and pointing to the body of the Wyandot, which still lay where he had fallen, said, “He is surely dead!”

“He is so,” replied the other, gravely; “when War–Eagle is angry he does not strike his enemy’s forehead twice.”

The guide now turned over the body; and seeing that the iron point of the war–club had entered just above the eyes, and had sunk deep into the brain, he knew that instant death must have ensued. The chief calling the two Indians, desired them to bury the body where it would be safe from wolves and buzzards. “But,” he added, sternly, “let not the spot be marked for his kindred: he died like a dog, and none should lament him.”

As they turned away to execute these orders, the guide observed to the chief “that Huron has not been long with the War–Eagle.”

“True,—but how does the Grande–Hâche know it?”

“His eye has been on him more than once; Grande–Hâche sees, but he can hold his tongue.”

“Grande–Hâche is a warrior,” replied the chief: “he has seen many things; he has talked with the wise men; does he know why yon Huron wished to kill the young white brave?”

“He does,” said Grande–Hâche; but as he did not of himself state what he knew, it would have been contrary to the usages of Indian courtesy to have questioned him further.

Baptiste now diverting the conversation to another topic, said, “It is singular that War–Eagle, on a war–path far from his village, should have only strangers with him excepting the youth who is wounded!”

“What means the Grande–Hâche?”

“He means,” replied the guide, “that the other two, now gone to bury the Huron, are Southern men[13]—they are not Lenapé.”

“Grande–Hâche has ears and eyes open—how can he know that he speaks truth?” said the chief.

“Because he has eyes and ears;” replied the guide. “Does War–Eagle think that Grande–Hâche has hunted twenty years among the red nations, and knows not yet the mocassin and tongue of a Shawanon? I knew them at a glance,” added he, with shrewd smile, “as well as I knew the War–Eagle in the batteau, though both he and they have put on their faces the paint of the Mengwe.”[14]

“Grande–Hâche speaks truth,” replied the chief dryly, without showing the surprise and annoyance that he felt at the penetration of the guide. “The men are Shawanons, they hunt with the Lenapé, beyond the great river—they are brothers.”

So saying, he broke off the conversation, and turning towards Wingenund, saw that he was talking as earnestly and freely with Reginald as if they had been long intimate; while he contemplated this friendly intercourse with a smile of satisfaction, the guide felt himself called upon to remind his companion that the sun was getting low, that they had yet some miles to walk, and that the Colonel would be anxious and impatient.

“True,” said Reginald, springing up, “I must take leave of my brother, and of my young preserver; but we shall meet again; we will hunt together, and be friends.”

“Let it be so,” said the lad, with an ardour which he cared not to conceal; “and Wingenund will tell Prairie–bird that the white warrior who drew War–Eagle from the deep water will come to see her, and she will thank him.”

While the boy was speaking, the chief turned away, and busied himself in fastening a thong halter firmly to the head of Nekimi, whom he again led to his new master.

Reginald now undid from his waist the silver buckled belt with the couteau–de–chasse which it supported, and buckling it round the youth, he said, “Wingenund must wear this, and must not forget his white friend.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, as he received this gift; but he was still too weak to stand, and he only murmured, in a low voice, “Wingenund will not forget.”

The chief now taking the guide aside said to him, in his own language, “How is my white brother called?”

“I call him ‘Master Reginald.’”[15]

After one or two ludicrous attempts at an imitation, War–Eagle shook his head, saying, “It is not good—may his Lenapé friend call him ‘Netis?’”[16]

As soon as Reginald was informed of what had passed, and of the meaning of his new name, he accepted it with pleasure, and Wingenund repeated it again and again as our hero bid him farewell.

War–Eagle insisted upon accompanying him, and leading Nekimi through the forest, until they reached the broad wheel track which passed Colonel Brandon’s house, and thence led through other clearings to the village of Marietta. As they went along, Reginald desired Baptiste in a whisper to talk with the chief, and endeavour to draw from him what article of dress, ornament or use, he would most value, as he was anxious to make his Indian brother a present; and the guide, by skilfully manœuvring his conversation, soon learnt that War–Eagle had, on this last excursion, lost his rifle, and that he was also short of ammunition. They now emerged from the forest upon the great road, if it might be so called, leading to Marietta; and the Indian putting the halter of Nekimi into Reginald’s hand, said that he would return to his camp. Our hero, taking him by the hand, said, “Netis wishes to see his brother at this spot to–morrow at noon.”

“War–Eagle will come,” was the brief reply; and shaking both the white men cordially by the hand, he turned and disappeared among the trees.

Reginald and the guide were within a few miles of Colonel Brandon’s house; but they could not proceed very fast, owing to the evident reluctance shown by Nekimi to follow his new master; he neighed, snorted, jumped, and played all manner of pranks in his endeavour to get loose; but this War–Eagle had foreseen, and the tough halter of undressed hide was well enough secured to defy all his efforts at escape.

“This has been a strange day of adventures, Baptiste,” said Reginald; “it has been to me one of the pleasantest of my life!”

“Why, Master Reginald, it has been a day of events, such as they are; you have been twice at the outside edge of t’other world, with water and cold iron.”

“Oh, there was not much harm in the water,” said Reginald, laughing; “had it not been for the knock which one of the horses gave me on the head; but that villainous attempt of the Huron makes me shudder;—to offer a man food, and stab him while he is taking it! I thought such a thing was unknown in Indian history.”

“It is almost,” said the guide. “But a Huron—and a Dahcotah!” added he, bitterly—“would murder a brother to gratify revenge.”

“But I had never injured him, Baptiste.”

“His memory is better than yours, Master Reginald. He and his brother were two of the leading warriors in that unfortunate affair where St. Clair was beat by the Ingians, upon the north fork of the Miami. I was there, too, and the ‘Doctor’s’ pills did some service—but not much to signify, neither. Colonel Brandon did all that man could do, but at last he was forced back. Well, that Tarhé and his brother, first in the pursuit, killed two of our poor fellows, and were scalping ‘em, when the Colonel called out to ‘em, and fired. He killed Tarhé’s brother dead. I see’d it all; and I took a long squint with the Doctor at Tarhé, which only lamed his arm a bit; for, you see, Master Reginald, I was a long ways off; and a chap don’t shoot quite so fine when he’s a retreatin’ double–quick, with a few hundred red–skins yellin’ in his rear. However, that Tarhé has been more than once down at Marietta, and round the neighbours’ clearins; and he knowed you, Master Reginald, just as well as a Kentucky hog knows an acorn.”

“Now I understand it, so far, Baptiste. But if the fellow wanted to take my life, why did he not hide in the laurel–thicket, and shoot me as I passed? Why did he make the attempt where my death was sure to be revenged?”

“Now, Master Reginald, you are asking a poor ignorant crittur,—who knows nought but a little huntin’, and, may be, knows a beaver–skin from a buffalo–hide,—all the ins and outs of a red Ingian’s crooked mind! May be, he wanted to force War–Eagle into shedding white man’s blood. I saw that one of those Shawanons was up to his game; and if a general skrimmage had come, they’d have tried to do for me. Or, perhaps, when he found his knife so convenient to the back of your neck, he couldn’t lose the chance, for the bad spirit had got hold of him.”

“By heavens!” cried Reginald, “I never can sufficiently admire the quickness, and the heroic courage of that boy, Wingenund! Did you see, Baptiste, how he drew that great knife slowly out of his wounded arm; and how all the time he smiled upon War–Eagle, as if to show him that he despised the pain?”

“He is a brave youth,” said the guide. “I know the stock he comes from: if he were a coward, the grisly bear might breed sheep!”

“Pray tell me something of his parents, and of his story. Is he related to War–Eagle?”

“He is,” said the guide. “They are the children of two brothers. War–Eagle of the eldest; Wingenund of the youngest.”

“Are these two brothers alive, Baptiste?”

“No: both were murdered by the white men, in time of peace, without provocation. There was a third brother, who, happening to be absent from the village on a hunt, escaped. He has now gone to the far west, beyond the great river. Both the War–Eagle and the boy are called his sons; and the latter, as he told us to–day, lives in his lodge.”

“Then all these three brothers were the children of Wingenund?”

“Yes.”

“And who was he?”

“One of the old Lenapé:—first in council, and foremost in the fight! I remember him well when I was a boy,” said the guide, warming with his subject. “He taught me to follow a trail, and to travel in the woods, with no other guide than the wind, the stars, and the bark of the trees; and before I was as old as that boy, his grandson, he lent me his rifle to shoot the first Dahcotah as ever I killed.”

“What was the party, Baptiste?” said Reginald (anxious to keep the guide from the subject of the Dahcotahs), “what party was it that committed the atrocious murder upon the Indians in time of peace?”

“Why, Master Reginald, though you were but a youngster, don’t you remember hearing that twelve or fourteen years ago a party of white men, led by Williamson, Harvey, and some other rough chaps from the Kentucky side, fell upon a village of friendly Indians on the banks of Tuscarawas river, and murdered all they found—man, woman, and child? Some of these poor red–skins had been made Christians, and were called Moravians; and their village as was destroyed was called by some outlandish name, too long by half for me to speak or to remember.[17] They had given over their own nat’ral life of smoking, hunting, and fighting, and did nothing but plant, and sow, and pray! And, after all, that’s the way they was served, Master Reginald!”

“Horrible and disgraceful cruelty!” said the young man: and rather thinking aloud, than addressing his companion, he added, “It is no wonder that the Indians should receive so unwillingly Christian precepts, when they have such examples of Christian practice. I am not surprised that War–Eagle should find it hard to forgive such injuries.”

“And yet you are surprised, Master Reginald,” said the guide, in a deep voice, almost hoarse from repressed emotion, “that I do not forgive the Dahcotah? Did he not burn the log–hut where I was born and raised? Did he not murder those who gave me birth? Did he not drive me out, a child, into the woods, to live by berries, or wild fruits, or what I could find or kill? Is not my father’s scalp (not half revenged!) now hanging before a Dahcotah lodge! Oh! let me come but within rifle range of the throat–cutter,[18] and if he comes off with a whole skin, I will forgive him!”

Our hero, seeing that further discussion would only increase an excitement which already mastered his companion’s self–control, said to him kindly, “Well, Baptiste, it must be owned that you have received from these people deep, irreparable wrong! You are a man, and would not pay them in their own base coin, by killing one of their squaws or children: but if it is ever your fortune to meet them in a fair stand–up fight, when I am with you, then you shall see that I can stand by a friend, and share in his just feelings of resentment.”

“I know it—I know it, Master Reginald,” said the guide, grasping the hand extended to him; and having now recovered an equanimity which nothing but the Dahcotah subject ever disturbed, he added,

“If you and I were to take a summer–hunt towards the mountains, with that light–limbed War–Eagle, who has the eyes, and ears, and the spring of a painter[19], we might p’raps bring in a handsome load o’ skins, and may be, pay off the throat–cutters an old debt or two.”

“It is more likely than you imagine, Baptiste, that we should make an excursion to the West this spring; for my father told me the other day—but see, there he is, with Lucy on his arm, and Aunt Mary, and Wolf by her side!”

As he said this, the young man bounded forward, and in a moment was in the midst of them, kissing his sister, shaking his father and Aunt Mary affectionately by the hand, and patting Wolf’s great shaggy head.

“Dear Reginald! what has kept you so long?” said Lucy, reproachfully; “where can you have been? Why, your clothes are all soiled; and see, papa,” she added, turning deadly pale; “there is blood upon his hunting–shirt and upon his cheek!”

“What a little coward art thou,” said Reginald, “to be the daughter of a soldier! Why, Lucy, the few drops of blood upon my clothes must surely have come from your cheeks, which are as pale as a magnolia flower! Harkee, Lucy, I must do something to drive the rosy current back to its proper channel; come here, girl:” and bending her head aside, he whispered something in her ear.

Never was the effect of magic more rapid, or more potent; for in an instant the obedient blood rushed to the fair girl’s cheek, suffusing at the same time her neck and temples with the same glowing hue: casting upon her brother a look at once playful and appealing, she pinched his ear between her tiny fingers till he fairly begged pardon, and promised not to do so again.

As it was now evident that Reginald was not much hurt, Lucy turned her eyes towards the hunter, who approached, leading Nekimi still snorting, prancing, and curvetting at the full length of his laryette. “Baptiste,” said the Colonel, “where have you found that wild, untamed animal?”

“He belongs,” said the hunter, “to Master Reginald.”

The Colonel looked to his son for an explanation, who giving an arm to his sister, while the Colonel escorted Aunt Mary, turned homewards, and narrated, as they went, the events described in this and the foregoing chapter.

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Chapter VIII

CONTAINING A SKETCH OF MOOSHANNE.—REGINALD INTRODUCES HIS SISTER TO THE TWO DELAWARES.

THE day following that on which the events related in the preceding pages occurred there was an assemblage more than usually numerous, gathered in and around the capacious store of David Muir, in Marietta: immediately in front of his door was a small party, who, from their bearing and appearance, might be easily recognised as leading persons in the little community. In the midst of them was a roughly–dressed country lad, whose haggard appearance indicated wretchedness or fatigue, or both: near the group stood his horse, reeking with sweat, and showing that the messenger, for such he was, had not spared the spurs on the road. Many and eager were the questions put to him; and the countenances of his auditors evinced no ordinary degree of interest in his replies; several women, and a dozen or two of boys and girls, made repeated endeavours to penetrate into this important circle; and having contrived to overhear a disjointed word, here and there, such as “Indian,” “scalped,” “rifle,” &c. they slunk away, one by one, to spread it abroad through the village, that a neighbouring settlement had been attacked by a large body of Indians, armed with rifles and tomahawks; and that every man, woman, and child, excepting this messenger, who had escaped, was scalped!

We will, however, introduce the reader into the centre of the above–mentioned group, and detail to him the substance of the news which created so much excitement.

It appears that on the preceding day, two brothers, named Hervey, were riding homeward after attending a marriage, at a small settlement twenty miles to the northward of Marietta: they were not above half a mile in advance of several other men, also returning from the marriage; both were armed with rifles, having been shooting at a target for a wager, when on a sudden, a single Indian, uttering a loud war–whoop, sprang from a thicket by the road, and at one stroke of his war–club felled the elder brother to the earth; before the second could come up to his assistance, the same Indian aimed a sweeping blow at his head with the butt–end of his rifle; the younger Hervey warded the blow also with his rifle, but it fell with such force that both barrels were broken off from the stocks: with the rapidity of lightning, the Indian struck him heavily on the head, and he fell stunned from his horse. A few minutes afterwards, he recovered, and found some of his friends standing over him; his unfortunate brother lay dead and scalped at his side: his horse and the Indian had disappeared. Several young men dashed off immediately in pursuit, and tracked the hoofs successfully until the fugitive had entered the hardy and stony bed of a rivulet falling into the Muskingum; hence all further search proved unsuccessful, and they returned dispirited to their companions.

It was long since so daring an outrage had been committed in the territory; seldom was it that the red–skins would attack white men in open day, unless they were greatly superior in numbers; but for a single Indian to fall upon two armed whites, killing one and leaving the other for dead, almost within call of his friends, was an instance of audacity to which the oldest hunter could scarcely remember a parallel: it was evident also that the savage had been aware of a party of whites being at hand, otherwise he would certainly have shot one brother before he attacked the other; but, avoiding the discharge of his rifle, he had effected his purpose with a war–club.

Another striking circumstance was the clear evidence afforded that the killing of the elder Hervey was an act of personal revenge; because the younger brother when knocked from his horse had fallen helpless at the Indian’s feet; and the latter, purposely to show that he had spared his life and scalp, had struck a knife through the lappet of his coat into the ground, with force enough to bury it up to the haft. Four or five of the best hunters had recommenced the pursuit; and although they once struck the trail of a man on foot evidently running from them, they were again baffled by the river, and returned to the settlement.

Such was the sum of the messenger’s intelligence, which caused, as can easily be imagined, no little sensation in Marietta and the neighbouring districts.

“I know some of the worst o’ them red–skin devils,” said a bulky young man, whose countenance betrayed violent passions, and strong symptoms of free indulgence in David Muir’s “fire–water;” “tell me what was this Ingian like?—how did Dick Hervey describe him?”

“He hadn’t over much time to look at him,” said the messenger, “afore he was sent to sleep; but he says he was a very tall powerful chap, streaked over the face with black.”

“Was he a young un or an old un?”

“A young un, and active as a deer, or he couldn’t have knocked those two Herveys off their critturs, as a man knocks off a corncob with an ash plant.”

“I wish I had him here,” said the young giant, shutting a hand as heavy and large as a shoulder of mutton. “I’d give him a real Kentucky hug.”

None of the bystanders seemed able to form any guess as to who the perpetrator of this bold outrage might be. It was resolved, however, to take all possible measures for his discovery; a meeting of the principal inhabitants was convened, a description of the Indian’s person, and of the marks by which Hervey’s horse might be recognised, was written, and several copies thereof made, and forwarded to the nearest posts and ferries; at the same time a reward of a hundred dollars was offered to any person who should discover the offender, and a hundred more for his seizure, dead or alive.

During the discussion of these and other plans at the meeting, our old acquaintance David Muir, who felt himself not to be one of the least important persons present, said, “I’m thinking, gentlemen, it would be as weel to send a messenger out to Colonel Brandon, wi’ this intelligence; he kens the Indians as weel’s ony man in this country side, mayhap he’ll gie us some gude counsel; and, sirs,” added David, his grey eyes twinkling at his own sagacity, “be sure ye dinna forget to tak the advice o’ yon lang–headed chiel, Battiste; if the Indian deevil’s o’ this side the Mississippi, Battiste will fin’ him out, as sure as twa threes mak sax.”

This was one of the longest orations which David had ever delivered in public; and both his suggestions being approved, carried nem. con., and the meeting dissolved, David returned to his store with his hands thrust into his coat–tail pockets, and his countenance big with the consciousness of having rendered essential service to the territory.

We must now return to Reginald, who, on the morning of this same day, rose with the sun; and feeling himself nothing the worse from his slight wounds, or from his diving adventure, sallied forth to see how Baptiste had provided for Nekimi’s safety and comfort. All means having failed to entice him into a stable, the hunter had secured him firmly to an oak, casting down for him abundance both of food and litter. Reginald approached him, holding in his hand some bread; and having given the sharp shrill cry (which to Lucy’s great alarm he had practised more than once in the house), he was agreeably surprised to perceive that the horse recognised it, and seemed less averse to his caresses. Having fed him, and carefully observed all the rules laid down by War–Eagle for gaining his affections, he returned to the house, and began to collect the various articles which he proposed to give to his Indian brother; among these was a good Kentucky rifle, and a handsome buck’s–horn knife for the chief; he selected also a light fowling–piece, which he had used as a boy, and which he intended for Wingenund; to these he added several pounds of powder, and a due proportion of lead; he also threw into the package a few beads and a large cornelian ring, which had been long the occupant of his dressing–case.

When he had collected all these together, he gave them to Baptiste, desiring him to be ready to accompany him to the rendezvous after breakfast; and having finished his preparations, he knocked at the door of Lucy’s room, to inquire whether she was ready to preside at the morning meal.

“Come in, Reginald,” she said; “if I am rather late it is your fault; for your adventures of yesterday have driven sleep from my pillow; and even when I did fall asleep, I dreamt of nothing but your Indian hero.”

“Say you so, faithless one?” replied Reginald; “I shall tell that to——“

“Hush, now, Reginald,” said the blushing girl, putting her little hand upon his mouth; “did you not promise me yesterday that you would not do so again?”

“Perhaps I did,” said her brother; “and I will keep it if you will come down stairs and give me a very good cup of coffee.”

In the breakfast–room they were joined by the Colonel and Aunt Mary; and while they discuss that most comfortable of family meals, we will give the reader a slight sketch of the house in which they were assembled.

It was built of substantial brick of a dun red colour, and had originally been a regular and solid building of moderate dimensions; but the Colonel had added on one side a wing, containing a library and sitting–rooms for himself and his son, while on the opposite side he had built additional apartments for Aunt Mary, and a small conservatory for Lucy. Thus the building had gradually assumed a straggling and irregular shape, the back court being occupied by stables, barns, and extensive farm offices. The site of the house was on a gentle elevation, sloping down to a little brook, which wound its bubbling way through a deep grove of oak, maple, and sycamore, and circling round the base of the hill, fell at the distance of half a mile into the Muskingum river. The spot still retained the name of “Mooshanne” (signifying, in the Delaware language, Elk Creek), probably owing to the little streamlet above mentioned having been a favourite resort of an animal which the rifles of Reginald and Baptiste had rendered somewhat scarce in the neighbourhood.

We left the family assembled at the breakfast–table, where the conversation still turned upon the adventures of the preceding day.

“Reginald,” said Lucy, “I should like to go with you to–day, to see your Indian brother, and that heroic boy.”

“I fear,” replied her brother, “it is farther than you could easily walk; and, moreover, Wingenund will scarcely accompany his chief; he must be still too weak from his wound.”

“Nay, Reginald; if the distance is the only difficulty, I can ride Snowdrop; and if Wingenund does come, I will reward him for his brave defence of my brother, by giving him some little trinket, which he may take back to his sister. You cannot refuse me now,” added she, in a coaxing tone, the power of which over her brother was all but despotic.

“Of course I cannot, if you obtain Aunt Mary’s and the Colonel’s permission,” said Reginald, smiling.

Lucy met with no further opposition. Snowdrop was ordered to be saddled: in a few minutes the happy girl was equipped, and provided with a coral necklace for the chief, and a pretty brooch, destined for her brother’s preserver.

The party now assembled before the door, consisting of Reginald, Baptiste, and Lucy, mounted on her favourite grey pony: our hero slung his rifle across his shoulders; the sturdy woodsman, besides carrying his own enormous axe, walked lightly under the two rifles and the other articles to be presented to the chief, and Wolf played around them his fantastic and unwieldy gambols.

Cheerful and smiling was the woodland scenery through which they passed; the dew–drops still glittered in the beams of the morning sun, and the air was impregnated with the vernal fragrance arising from a thousand opening buds and blossoms.

“See, Lucy,” said her brother, as he walked by her side, while the tact of the sturdy hunter kept him a few paces in the rear, “see how those mischievous squirrels hop and chatter upon the boughs! They seem to know that your presence is a protection to them.”

“I often wonder, Reginald, how you can shoot such playful and graceful animals; you, who have taste enough to admire their beauty, and who can find sport more worthy of your rifle.”

“It is childish sport, Lucy; yet they are no contemptible additions to the table; their furs are useful; and there is some skill in shooting them, that is, in shooting them properly.”

“If I were a man, I would shoot nothing but lions and tigers, buffaloes or bears!” said his sister.

“A pretty Amazon, truly!” said Reginald, laughing: “yet, methinks your thoughts are not always so warlike. Come, Lucy, now that we are alone (for our good Baptiste is out of ear–shot), you need not pout or blush if I ask you whether Ethelston is expected soon to return?”

“Indeed, I know not, Reginald,” said his sister, blushing, in spite of his prohibition. “His last letter to the Colonel mentioned something about privateers and the rupture with France. Papa did not appear desirous of communicating much upon the subject, so I dropt it.”

“True,” said Reginald; “the French will not soon forget or forgive the loss of their fine frigate, The Insurgente, which was taken the other day so gallantly by The Constellation. I doubt not they will endeavour to cripple our trade in the West Indies. Edward has got a little craft that can run, if she cannot fight.”

“I am sure Edward will never run if it is possible to fight,” said Lucy, a little piqued.

“There, again, you speak the truth: it is because his courage is so tempered by his judgment, that he is fit to be entrusted with other lives and property than his own: if it is not possible to fight, he will have sense and skill enough to show the Frenchman his heels.—By–the–by, Lucy, which vessel is he now commanding?”

Again there was a decided blush, and almost a pout on Lucy’s full lip, as she said, “You know, brother, that The Adventure and the Pocahuntas are both in port, and the vessel he is now on board of is the—“

—“Oh! I remember,” said Reginald, laughing; “she was to have been called the ‘Lucy;’ but Edward did not choose to hear that name in every common sailor’s and negro’s mouth; so he altered it to The Pride of Ohio, which means, in his vocabulary, the same thing.”

“I wish,” said Lucy, “there was any Mary, or Charlotte, or Catherine, or any other name under the sun, about which I could tease you! Have a little patience, Mr. Reginald; my turn will come; you shall see what mercy I will show you then!”

Thus did the brother and sister spar and jest with each other until they reached the spot appointed for the interview. As they had arrived rather before the time, they imagined that the War–Eagle had not yet come; but Baptiste, putting his finger to his mouth, blew a long shrill signal whistle, and in a few minutes the chief appeared, accompanied by Wingenund. As they emerged from the forest, and approached, Reginald looked at his sister to see the effect produced by their appearance; for the chief was dressed in a manner calculated to display his noble figure and countenance to better advantage than on the preceding day. His long black hair was parted on his forehead, and gathered into a mass, confined by a narrow fillet made from the fur of the white weasel, and surmounted by an eagle’s feather. It seemed that his vow of war and revenge was for the time cancelled; for the lines of black paint which had disfigured his visage were removed, and the commanding form and features were not marred by any grotesque or fanciful attire. His brawny neck was bare, and a portion of his bold, open chest appeared beneath the light hunting–shirt, which was his only upper vesture. The ponderous war–club was still at his girdle, but the scalp had disappeared; and his light, free step upon the grass was like that of a young elk on the prairie.

The dress of Wingenund was unaltered. He was still very weak from the loss of blood, and the pain consequent upon his wound; his arm rested in a sling, made from the plaited bark of elm: and the air of languor cast over his countenance by sleeplessness and suffering, gave additional effect to the delicacy of his features, and the deep dark lustre of his eyes.

“Our new brother is indeed a fine looking creature!” said Lucy, as War–Eagle drew near. “What a haughty step and bearing he has! Wingenund looks too gentle to be an Indian!”

“He is as brave as gentle, Lucy: look at his arm!” and, as she did look at the wounded limb, she remembered that only yesterday it had saved her brother’s life.

The greeting between Reginald and the two Indians was affectionate and cordial: he then presented his sister to them both in turn. The chieftain placing his hand upon his heart, fixed upon her that penetrating look with which he had before scrutinised her brother: it was not the bold stare of vulgarity admiring beauty, but the child of nature reading, after his own fashion, a page in her book.

“War–Eagle,” said Lucy to him, in her own gentle tone of voice, “I know all that passed yesterday, and you are now my brother!”

As she pronounced his name in English, a gleam shot from his eye, and a perceptible and sudden change came over his countenance: it seemed produced by some unexpected association; and Lucy was surprised at the deep pathos of his voice, as he replied, “The Great Spirit has made the sun to shine upon my white brother’s path! His heart is brave; his arm is strong; and his sister is like a flower of the prairie!—her voice comes upon the ear like a pleasant dream!” These last words he spoke rather to himself than addressing those around him.

Lucy was not displeased with the Indian’s compliment, and was about to speak to Wingenund, when Reginald said aloud, “Come, let us withdraw among those thick trees; we have many things to talk about.” His proposal being assented to, the whole party were soon re–assembled under a branching oak, screened from the public track by a thicket of rhododendron.

While they were effecting this manœuvre, the guide took an opportunity of interchanging a few sentences with the War–Eagle; the result of which was apparently satisfactory to the honest woodsman, for his face instantly resumed its usual frank and careless expression.

“Lucy,” said her brother, “as you have thought proper to accompany me here, you must play your part as Queen of the Feast. I hope my brothers will value these baubles more from your hands than from mine.” Thus instructed, Lucy opened the canvasss package, which the guide had hitherto carried, and presenting the large rifle to the chief, she said to him:

“War–Eagle, your brother and your white sister give you this rifle, as a mark of their friendship; and with it they give you powder and lead enough to shoot all the deer and bears in the territory.”

The chief placed her hand and her brother’s both upon his heart, saying, “War–Eagle thanks you. May the Great Spirit love you, and guard your path!”

He then poised and examined the rifle, which was a piece of no ordinary beauty and excellence; while Baptiste whispered to him, in his own language, “It is loaded.”

Lucy then turned to Wingenund, and, presenting him with the lighter fowling–piece, said to him, “With this, a sister thanks Wingenund for a brother’s life.”

The boy cast his eyes modestly to the ground, saying, “Wingenund is too happy. War–Eagle will tell his name to the braves in council. The sister of Netis is good to him; Wingenund is ready to die!”

“Indeed,” said Lucy to the guide, “I fear he is very faint and ill; ask the chief how he passed the night!”

“Wingenund is not ill,” said the boy, with a smile; “he is very happy.”

Meanwhile Baptiste, having conferred with the chief, replied, “Why, Miss Lucy, the wound was a very bad ‘un, and he lost a power o’ blood; once or twice in the night, War–Eagle thought he might not get over it; but he is better now, and though unable to bear much fatigue, he is a hardy young plant, and will take as much killing as an eel.”

“Come, Baptiste,” said Reginald; “I know you put something to eat and drink into that sack with the ammunition: War–Eagle must feast with us to–day.”

The guide opening his capacious wallet, drew from it a venison pasty, some bread, and a couple of bottles of Madeira. Lucy declined taking more than a crust of bread, merely tasting the wine to the health of the hunters. Wingenund was equally abstemious, and sat a little apart with his new sister; while Reginald, Baptiste, and the Chief made a more substantial luncheon. The latter being asked, by Reginald, how he liked the wine, replied carelessly, “Good.” But it was evident that he drank it rather from courtesy than because it pleased his palate.

Reginald now desired the guide to speak to the War–Eagle in his own tongue, and to gather from him all the requisite particulars for his joining the Delawares in their summer–hunt beyond the Mississippi. He had long been anxious to visit some of those scenes which Baptiste had so often described; and his father having expressed a wish that he should go to St. Louis on some business connected with his investments in the fur–trade, he thought that so fair an opportunity ought not to be lost.

While the guide and the chief conversed in a low and earnest tone of voice, and Reginald listened with an idle curiosity, imagining now and then that he could catch their meaning, Lucy became much interested in her conversation with Wingenund: she was surprised at his intelligence, and proficiency in English, and was touched by the melancholy expression of his countenance and of his deep lustrous eyes. As she was speaking, he suddenly and impressively placed his finger on her arm, then raised it to his own lips, as a sign to her to be silent; then creeping two or three yards from the party, he threw himself full length upon the grass with his ear to the ground. Lucy listened attentively, but could hear nothing but the gentle breeze stirring the leaves, and the regular sound of Snowdrop’s teeth as he nibbled the young grass.

The three hunters were still busy with their arrangements for the summer, when Wingenund, resuming his sitting posture, uttered an almost imperceptible sound, like the hiss of a small serpent. Instantly, as if by instinct, the War–Eagle grasped his rifle, and looked inquiringly on the intelligent countenance of the boy.

“Wingenund hears men and horses,” was the short reply.

Baptiste strained his practised ears to the utmost, as did Reginald, without success. Even War–Eagle seemed for a moment unable to catch the sound. He then whispered to Reginald, “Wingenund speaks truth, there are men—not a few.”

Several minutes elapsed before our hero and the guide could distinguish the tramp of horses and the voices of men speaking angrily.

Our hero and his party being effectually screened from view by the dense laurel[20] thicket, could listen unobserved to the conversation of those who were approaching; and the following expressions delivered in a loud and authoritative tone, at once attracted and absorbed their attention: “It is impossible that the fellow should escape, we have scouts out in every direction. There can be no doubt that the camp which we have just found in the woods is the one where he passed the night with other red–skins, for the embers are still warm. Dickenson and Brown are gone south towards Marietta; Henderson and his party are tracking the prairies to the north: it is impossible he should long escape; and young Hervey thinks he should know him anywhere!”

While the person who appeared to be the leader of the unseen party was thus speaking, War–Eagle whispered a few sentences to Wingenund, to which the intelligent youth only replied by a look; the chief then conversed apart, in a low earnest voice, with the guide, who ended by grasping his hand, and saying, in the Delaware tongue, “Grande–Hâche will do it at the risk of his life.”

The chief appeared satisfied, and rising with calm dignity, he tightened the belt at his waist, to which he hung his newly acquired knife and ammunition; and throwing his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, he said to Reginald, “War–Eagle must leave his brother Netis; Grande–Hâche will tell him all; before two moons have passed, Netis will come to hunt the bison with his brother; and he shall smoke with the braves of the Lenapé.”

“He will,” replied Reginald, warmly pressing his hand, and at the same time passing the cornelian ring upon one of the fingers of the chief. “If the Great Spirit gives him life, he will come and hunt, and smoke with his Lenapé brother.”

The chief, now turning to Lucy, drew from his head the eagle feather which was passed through his hair, and which was quaintly stained, and ornamented with porcupine quills: offering it gracefully to her, he said, in a voice of musical gentleness, “War–Eagle wishes happiness to the ‘pale flower of Mooshanne;’ many braves have tried to pluck this feather from his head; no Dahcotah nor Pawnee has touched it and lived! The Sister of Netis may fasten it in her hair—let none but a brave warrior raise his eyes to it there.”

“Thank you, dear War–Eagle,” said Lucy, kindly; “I promise you it shall never be touched by an unworthy hand; and do you take this string of red beads,” giving him at the same time a coral necklace, “and wear it for the sake of your white sister.”

The chief received this gift with evident pleasure; and waving his hand in adieu, whispering at the same time one parting word to Wingenund, he strode leisurely away, and was soon lost in the deep glades of the forest.

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Chapter IX

HOW REGINALD BRANDON RETURNED TO MOOSHANNE WITH HIS SISTER, ACCOMPANIED BY WINGENUND; AND WHAT BEFELL THEM ON THE ROAD.

Lucy Brandon was not a little surprised at the chief’s sudden departure; and, with the frankness natural to her character, inquired of her brother whether he could explain its cause. Reginald appeared either unable or unwilling to do so; and an appeal to the guide produced only the following unsatisfactory reply:

“War–Eagle is like the bird after which he’s called—it ain’t easy to explain or to follow his flight.”

Wingenund remained silent, but every now and then he fixed his bright and speaking eyes upon Lucy, as if he would divine her thoughts. That young lady, though at a loss to account for her embarrassment, entertained a fear that all was not right, and proposed to her brother to return to Mooshanne.

Snowdrop was soon caught, and the little party moved leisurely homeward, Reginald and the guide leading the way, and Wingenund walking by the side of Lucy’s pony; after riding a few minutes, she recovered her spirits, and remembering that there was no foundation for any surmises of evil, she resumed the conversation with her young companion, which the chief’s departure had interrupted. “Tell me, Wingenund, who is the ‘Black Father,’ of whom you speak?”

“He is very good,” said the boy, seriously; “He talks with the Great Spirit; and he tells us all that the Great Spirit has done; how He made the earth, and the water; and how He punishes bad men, and makes good men happy.”

“He is a white man, then?” said Lucy.

“He is,” replied the lad; “but though he is a white man, he always speaks truth, and does good, and drinks no fire–water, and is never angry.”

What a humiliating reflection is it, thought Lucy to herself, that in the mind of this young savage the idea of white men is naturally associated with drunkenness and strife! “Tell me, Wingenund,” she continued, “is the ‘Black Father’ old?”

“Many winters have passed over his head, and their snow rests upon his hair.”

“Does he live with you always?”

“He comes and he goes, like the sunshine and the rain; he is always welcome; and the Lenapé love him.”

“Can he speak your tongue well?”

“He speaks many tongues, and tries to make peace between the tribes; but he loves the Lenapé, and he teaches ‘the Prairie–bird’ to talk with the Great Spirit.”

“Does your sister speak to the Black Father in her own tongue?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes in the English; but often in a strange tongue, written on a great book. The Black Father reads it, and the Prairie–bird opens her ears, and looks on his face, and loves his words; and then she tells them all to me. But Wingenund is a child of the Lenapé—he cannot understand these things!”

“You will understand them,” said Lucy, kindly, “if you only have patience: you know,” she added, smiling, “your sister understands them, and she is a Lenapé too!”

“Yes,” said the boy; “but nobody is like Prairie–bird.”

“She must, indeed, be a remarkable person,” said Lucy, humouring her young companion’s fancy; “still, as you have the same father and mother, and the same blood, whatever she learns, you can learn too.”

“I have no father or mother,” said Wingenund, sadly, and he added, in a mysterious whisper, drawing near to Lucy, “Prairie–bird never had a father or mother.”

“Never had a father or mother!” repeated Lucy, as the painful thought occurred to her, that poor Wingenund was deranged.

“Never,” said the boy, in the same tone; “she came from there,” pointing, as he spoke, towards the north–west quarter of the heaven.

“How melancholy is it,” said Lucy to herself, “to think that this brave, amiable boy should be so afflicted! that so intelligent and quick a mind should be like a lyre with a broken string! Still,” thought she, “I will endeavour to understand his meaning, and to undeceive him.”

“Dear Wingenund, you are mistaken—your sister had the same father and mother as yourself; she may have learnt much, and may understand things strange to you, but you might learn them too.”

“Wingenund’s father and mother are dead,” said the boy, in a voice of deep and suppressed emotion; “he will not tell you how they died, for it makes his heart throb and his eyes burn; but you are good to him, and shall not see his anger. Prairie–bird never had a father; the Great Spirit gave her to the Lenapé.”

While Lucy was musing how she should endeavour to dispel this strange delusion, which seemed to have taken such firm hold of her young companion’s mind, Reginald and Baptiste halted, and the latter said, “You see that party approaching; they may put some troublesome questions, leave me to answer them. Wingenund, you know what I mean?”

“Wingenund does not understand English,” said the boy, a slight smile of irony lurking in the corner of his mouth.

The approaching party consisted of eight or ten men, all armed with rifles, excepting two, who were mounted, and who carried cutlasses and large horse–pistols; among the pedestrians towered the gigantic form of young Mike Smith, who has already been presented to the reader before the store of David Muir in Marietta; and among the horsemen was the younger Hervey, leading his friends to scour the whole country in search of the slayer of his brother: they were all in a high state of excitement; and despite the cool and unmoved demeanour of the guide, he was not without apprehension that they might desire to wreak their vengeance on Wingenund.

“Ha! Baptiste,” said Hervey, grasping the guide’s hand; “you are the very man we are in search of; we have already been to the Colonel’s, and he told us we should find you with his son, and with Miss Brandon, in this quarter. We want your assistance, man, and that speedily too.”

“How can I serve you?” said the guide; “what is the matter? you seem bent on a hunt.”

“A hunt?” exclaimed Hervey, “yes, a hunt of a red–skin devil! Harkee, Baptiste!” and stooping from his horse, he repeated to the guide, in a low voice, but clear enough to be heard by all present, the circumstances attending his brother’s death.

“A daring act, indeed,” said the guide musing: “but could not you follow the trail while it was fresh, yesterday?”

“We followed it to a creek leading to the Muskingum, and there we lost it.”

“Can you describe the appearance of the Indian?” inquired the guide.

“A tall, handsome fellow, as straight as a poplar, and with a leap like a painter, so he seemed; but d—n him, he gave me such a knock on the head, that my eyes swam for five minutes.”

A cold shudder ran through Lucy’s limbs as, comparing this slight sketch of War–Eagle with his sudden departure and the guide’s caution to Wingenund, she recognised in the chief the object of their search: glancing her eye timidly at Wingenund, she could read on his countenance no traces of uneasiness; he was playing with Snowdrop’s mane; his gun resting on the ground, and he himself apparently unconscious of what was passing.

After a minute’s reflection, the guide continued: “You say that the Indian’s rifle was broken in half; did you notice anything about it?”

“Nothing: it was a strong coarse piece; we have brought the stock with us; here it is,” he added, calling up one of his party to whom it had been entrusted.

The guide took it in his hand, and at the first glance detected the imitation of a feather, roughly but distinctly cut with a knife: his own suspicions were at once confirmed, although his countenance betrayed no change of expression; but Mike Smith, who had been looking over his shoulder, had also observed the marks of the feather, and noticed it immediately aloud, adding, “Come, Baptiste, you know all the Ingian marks between Alleghany and the Missouri; what red–skin has this belonged to?”

“Mike,” said the guide coolly, “a man’s tongue must shoot far and true to hit such a mark as that.”

“And yet, Baptiste, if I’d been as long at the guiding and trapping as you, I think I’d a’ know’d something about it.”

“Ay, that’s the way of it,” replied Baptiste; “you young ‘uns always think you can shave a hog with a horn spoon! I’spose, Master Mike, you can tell a buzzard from a mockingbird; but if I was to show you a feather, and ask you what buzzard it belonged to, the answer might not be easy to find.”

“You’re an old fool,” growled Mike, angrily; and he added, as his eye rested suddenly upon Wingenund, “What cub is that standing by Miss’s white pony? we’ll see if he knows this mark. Come here, you devil’s brat.”

Not a muscle in the boy’s face betrayed his consciousness that he was addressed.

“Come here, you young red–skin!” shouted Mike yet more angrily, “or I’ll sharpen your movements with the point of my knife.”

Reginald’s fiery temper was ill calculated to brook the young backwoods–man’s coarse and violent language: placing himself directly between him and Wingenund, he said to the former in a stern and determined tone, “Master Smith, you forget yourself; that boy is one of my company, and is not to be exposed either to insult or injury.”

“Here’s a pretty coil about a young red–skin,” said Mike, trying to conceal his anger under a forced laugh; “how do we know that he ain’t a brother or a son of the Ingian we’re in search of? s’ blood, if we could find out that he was, we’d tar him, and burn him over a slow fire!”

“I tell you again,” said Reginald, “that he is guilty of no crime; that he saved my life, yesterday, at the risk of his own; and that, while I live, neither you nor any of your party shall touch a hair of his head.”

Baptiste fearing the result of more angry words, and moved by an appealing look from Miss Brandon, now interposed, and laying his hand on Smith’s shoulder, said, “Come, Master Mike, there is no use in threatening the young red–skin, when you see that he does not understand a word that you say: tell me what you wish to inquire of him, and I will ask him in his own tongue.”

“His tongue be d——d,” said Mike; “I’ll wager a hat against a gallon of David Muir’s best, that the brat knows English as well as you or I, although he seems to have nothing to do but to count the tassels on the edge of his shirt. I’ll show you, without hurting him,” he added in a lower tone, “that I’m not far wrong.”

“You swear not to injure him?” said Reginald, who overheard what passed.

“I do,” said Mike; “I only want to show you that he can’t make a fool of Mike Smith.” Here he called up one of the men from the rear; and having whispered something in his ear, he said, in a loud and distinct tone of voice, “Jack, we have found out that this Indian cub belongs to the party, one of whom murdered poor Hervey. Life for life is the law of the backwoods: do you step a little on one side; I will count four, and when I come to the four, split me the young rascal’s head, either with a bullet or with your axe.”

“For Heaven’s sake, as you are men,” exclaimed Lucy, in an agony, “spare him!”

“Peace, Miss Brandon,” said Mike; “your brother will explain to you that it must be so.”

The guide would fain have whispered a word to the boy, but he was too closely watched by Smith, and he was obliged to trust to Wingenund’s nerves and intelligence.

“Are you ready, Jack?” said Mike, audibly.

“Yes!” and he counted slowly, pausing between each number, “one—two—three!” At the pronunciation of this last word, Wingenund, whose countenance had not betrayed, by the movement of a muscle, or by the expression of a single feature, the slightest interest in what was passing, amused himself by patting the great rough head which Wolf rubbed against his hand as if totally unconscious that the deadly weapon was raised, and that the next word from the hunter’s lips was to be his death warrant.

“D—n it, you are right, after all, Baptiste,” said Mike Smith; “the brat certainly does not understand us, or he’d have pricked his ears when I came to number three; so, do you ask him, in his own lingo, if he knows that mark on the rifle–butt, and can tell us to what red–skin tribe it belongs?”

The guide now addressed a few words to Wingenund in the Delaware tongue, while Reginald and Lucy interchanged a glance of wonder and admiration at the boy’s sagacity and courage.

“He tells me that he has seen this mark before,” said the guide.

“Has he?” replied Mike; “ask him whether it is that of a Shawnee or a Wyandot, of an Iroquois or of a Delaware?”

After again conferring with Wingenund, the guide muttered to himself, “This youngster won’t tell a lie to keep a bullet from his brain or a halter from his neck; I must act for him.” He added, in a louder tone, “Mike, a word with you: it is not unlikely that the Ingian you’re in search of, is the same who gave the boy that wound, and who tried to kill Master Reginald yesterday: if it is so, he wants no more punishing; he has his allowance already.”

“How so?” said Mike.

“He is dead, man,—killed on the spot. Do you and Hervey meet me here to–morrow, an hour before noon; I will take you to the place where the body is buried, and you shall judge for yourselves whether it is that of the man you seek.”

“It’s a bargain,” said Mike; “we’ll come to the time. Now, lads, forward to Hervey’s clearing. Let’s have a merry supper to–night; and to–morrow, if the guide shows us the carcase of this rascal, why we can’t hurt that much; but we’ll pay off a long score, one day or other, with some of the red–skins. Sorry to have kept you waitin’, Miss; and hope we haven’t scared you,” said the rough fellow, making, as he drew off his party, an awkward attempt at a parting bow to Lucy.

“That was a clever turn of Baptiste’s,” said Reginald in a low voice to his sister; “he has made them believe that the cowardly knave who tried to stab me was the perpetrator of the daring outrage which they seek to avenge!”

“And was it really War–Eagle?” said Lucy, with a slight shudder,—“he who looks so noble and so gentle,—was it he who did it?”

“I believe so,” said Reginald.

“But is it not wrong in us to be friends with him, and to aid his escape?”

“Indeed,” replied her brother, “it admits of doubt; let us ask the guide, he will speak now without reserve;” and accordingly Reginald repeated to Baptiste the question and his sister’s scruples.

“Why you see, Miss,” said the wary hunter, “there is no proof that War–Eagle did it; though I confess it was too bold a deed to have been done by that dog of a Wyandot: but I will tell you, Miss,” he added, with increasing energy and vehemence, “IF the War–Eagle did it, you will yourself, when you know all, confess that he did it nobly, and that he deserves no punishment from man. That elder Hervey was one of the bloodthirsty band by whom the harmless Christian Indians[21] were murdered; and it is believed that it was by Hervey’s own hand that Wingenund’s father fell; if War–Eagle revenged this cruel murder, and yet spared the life of the younger brother, when lying helpless at his feet, who shall dare to blame him, or move a foot in his pursuit?”

“He speaks the truth, Lucy,” said her brother; “according to the rules by which retaliation is practised by mankind, War–Eagle would have been justified in punishing with death such an act of unprovoked atrocity: but it is a dangerous subject to discuss; you had better forget all you have heard about it; and in case of further inquiries being made in your presence, imitate the happy unconsciousness lately displayed by Wingenund.”

“Come here, my dear young brother,” he added in a kindly tone, “and tell us,—did you really think that hot–headed chap was going to shoot you when he counted number three?”

“No,” said the boy with a scornful smile.

“And why not? for he’s a violent and angry man.”

“He dared not,” was the reply.

“How so?”

“He is a fool!” said the boy, in the same scornful tone; “a fool scarcely fit to frighten the fawn of an antelope! If he had touched me or attempted to shoot me, Netis and Grande–Hâche would have killed him immediately.”

“You are right, my young brave,” said Reginald, “he dared not hurt you. See, dear Lucy,” he added apart to his sister, “what a ripe judgment, what an heroic spirit, what nerves of iron, are found in the slender frame of this wounded boy, exhausted by fatigue and suffering!”

“We will at least give him a hearty supper,” said Lucy, “and an affectionate welcome to our home.”

Wingenund thanked her with his dark eyes, and the little party proceeded leisurely, without incident or interruption, to Mooshanne.

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Chapter X

IN WHICH THE READER IS UNCEREMONIOUSLY TRANSPORTED TO ANOTHER ELEMENT IN COMPANY WITH ETHELSTON; THE LATTER IS LEFT IN A DISAGREEABLE PREDICAMENT.

It is time that we should now turn our attention to Ethelston, who is much too important a personage in our narrative to be so long neglected, and respecting whose safety Lucy began to feel the jealous anxiety of love; for The Pride of Ohio had been long expected in Marietta, and several French frigates and corvettes were reported to be cruising among the West Indian Islands, actively engaged in revenging upon American commerce the loss which they had sustained in The Insurgente. We shall soon see that Lucy’s alarm was not altogether groundless, and that her lover’s prolonged absence was not without sufficient cause. About a month preceding the occurrences detailed in the last chapter, Ethelston, having landed his merchandise in safety at Port Royal, and having taken on board a small cargo of sugar and coffee, prepared to return to New Orleans. He had heard of the French men–of–war cruising in the neighbourhood, and prudently resolved to risk as little as possible on this trip: he took therefore securities for a great portion of the amount due to him, which he left in the charge of the vessel’s consignees, and conveyed on board only a sufficient cargo to put The Pride of Ohio in perfect sailing trim, and to give her a fair chance of escape in case she were chased by an enemy. His little brig was well rigged and manned, and he felt confident that few, if any, of the French cruisers would match her for speed. His mate, or sailing–master, was Gregson, a hardy weather–beaten old sailor, who had served on board of every kind of craft, from a man–of–war to a fishing–cobble, and knew every headland, reef, and current in that dangerous sea, as well as a Liverpool pilot knows the banks and shoals in the mouth of the Mersey. The Pride of Ohio mounted three guns; two eighteen–pound carronades, and one long nine–pounder: ten stout fellows and a black cook completed her complement: the last–mentioned person deserves special notice, as he was a character strangely formed by the alternations of fortune which he had seen. A native of the interior of western Africa, he had in early life been chosen, on account of his extraordinary strength and courage, a chief of the Lucumi tribe, to which he belonged; but having been unfortunately made a prisoner, he was taken down to the coast and sold to a slaver: thence he had been conveyed to some of the Spanish Islands, and afterwards to Virginia, where he had come into possession of Colonel Brandon, who finding him possessed of many good qualities, and of a sagacity very rare among his countrymen, had offered him his liberty when he moved to Ohio; but Cupid (for so was the negro called) had grown so much attached to his master, that he begged to be allowed to remain in his service, and, from one employment to another, had now become cook and steward on board The Pride of Ohio. In frame he was Herculean; and though he rarely exerted his strength, he had shown on various occasions that it was nearly if not quite equal to that of any other two men in the vessel. He spoke but little, and was sullen and reserved in his manners; but as he never disobeyed orders, and never was guilty of aggression or violence, Cupid was, upon the whole, a favourite with the crew.

To Ethelston he was invaluable; for he was always at his post, was scrupulously honest with respect to money or stores placed under his charge, and on more than one occasion his shrewdness and readiness had surprised his young commander. The captain (for so was Ethelston called on board) always treated Cupid kindly, and never allowed him to be made the subject of those jeers and insults to which free negroes in the States are usually exposed. On this account the cook, who never forgot that he had been a warrior, entertained towards him the warmest feelings of attachment and gratitude.

How or where he had obtained the name he bore, none seemed to know; and Ethelston remembered having heard that when first he came into Colonel Brandon’s possession, and was asked his name, he had sullenly replied, “The name I once had is at home: a slave has neither name nor home!” A terrible gash across his forehead and left cheek (received, probably, in the war when he was captured,) had disfigured a countenance that had been originally expressive of haughtiness and determination, and had, perhaps, led the slave–dealer to bestow upon him in irony the name by which he was now called.

The Pride of Ohio had made good two days of her homeward passage, when, in endeavouring to round a point on the southern coast of Cuba, Ethelston descried a ship some miles to windward, and a–head, which a careful examination through his glass convinced him was a French frigate. His mate being below at the time, he sent for him on deck, anxious to see whether the experienced sailor’s observation would confirm his opinion. As soon as he appeared, handing him the glass, he said, “Gregson, see what you make of that fellow on our larboard bow.”

“Make of her!” said the mate; “the devil take him that made her, and him that brought her athwart us, say I, captain! She’s a Frenchman; and though we can’t well see her hull yet, I doubt it won’t be long before we see her row of teeth.”

“I thought so myself,” said Ethelston. “We must hold our course steady; and if we can round the point, we may then bear away, and show her a pair of heels. Turn the hands up, Gregson; trim the sails, and stand by for a run. Put Harrison at the helm; he can keep her a point nearer than that youngster.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” was the reply; and having executed the order, he returned to Ethelston, who was still sweeping the southern horizon with his glass, and examining the strange ship, whose hull was now distinctly visible.

The young man’s countenance wore a grave expression, as, returning the glass to his mate, he said, “Gregson, it is, as we supposed, a French frigate. We may, perhaps, creep along under the shore without his noticing our small craft.”

The old seaman riveted the glass upon the stranger, as if he wished to count every sail and plank. During the examination, he grunted two or three inarticulate ejaculations, in unison with which his hard features underwent various contortions; and his young commander waited with no little impatience for what he called his “overhauling.”

“She’s neither more nor less than that infernal Epervier, commanded by L’Estrange. She’s one of the fastest sailers in their navy; and as for our creeping past her without being seen, he’s the wrong sort o’ man for that fun: herring or whale, all’s fish for his net!”

“I have often heard of him,” said Ethelston: “they say he’s a fine fellow.”

“That he is, to give the devil his due, as jolly an old dog as ever lived, and much too good a seaman for a mounseer. Look’ee there, captain,” added he, after another squint through the glass; “he’s altering his course already—two or three points free, and the reefs shaken out o’ the tops’ls. We shall hear from him soon.”

“Can we give him the slip by bearing up for the eastern passage?—We should then show him our tail; and a stern chase is a long one.”

“We might try if you wish it, captain; but it blows fresh, and she won’t be very fond of this lee shore. I think, if you allow me to advise, we’d better hug it; take the chance of a long shot in rounding that headland, and then run for the inner channel behind the Isle of Pines. He’ll not be after following us there; or, if he does, the frigate’s keel will chance to scrape acquaintance with a reef.”

“You are right, Gregson,” said Ethelston. “The Pride may fetch that point on this tack. Keep a close luff, Harrison.”

“Luff it is, sir,” was the reply, as Ethelston went below to consult his chart, and to prepare himself for entering the intricate channel between the Isle de Pinos and the main island.

The gallant little brig well sustained her high character as a sailer, and dashed her bows fearlessly through the foaming waves, under a press of canvasss such as few vessels of her tonnage could have borne. The breeze was freshening, and the frigate now shaped her course with the evident intention of cutting off the chase from rounding the headland before mentioned.

The men on board the brig were now clustered forward, anxiously debating the probable issue; while Cupid steamed away in his caboose, preparing the dinner as quietly as if there had been no frigate to windward, nor a rock–bound shore to leeward; but though he seemed thus busied in his usual avocations, he cast every now and then his dark eye upon The Epervier; and few on board could estimate better than himself the danger of their situation.

Ethelston, having finished a careful examination of his chart, now came on deck, and a single glance sufficed to show him that he could not round the point a–head without coming within range of the frigate’s guns: but the brig had kept her offing, and he had little doubt of her making good her escape, unless she were crippled by a shot from the enemy.

The Epervier now hoisted her colours for the brig to heave–to; and that being disregarded, she fired a shot, which fell short of her bows. Finding that no notice was taken of this, L’Estrange ordered his first lieutenant to fire at the saucy brig in good earnest, to bring her to her senses. Fortunately for the latter, there was a short angry sea running, and the distance being considerable, the first shot did not take effect. Several of the hands on board the brig had served in men–of–war; these were now oracles among their messmates, and they looked with some anxiety at their young captain, curious to see how he would behave under fire, for they believed he had never smelt powder: and although strict and firm in his command, he was usually so gentle and quiet in his manner, that they considered him rather a studious than a fighting character. Their curiosity was not, however, much gratified; for Ethelston, without appearing to notice the frigate, kept his eye steadfastly fixed upon the cape a–head; and, after a brief silence, he said, “Gregson, there is a strong current which sets in shore here, The Pride cannot weather that point on this tack.”

“You are right, sir,” said the mate; “L’Estrange has got his bristles up, he is nearing us every minute, and if we carry on this course, in another half–hour, both will go ashore.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the young captain, the colour rising in his cheek, as a sudden thought flashed across him. “If we could ensure that both would go to pieces among those breakers, it would be a glorious death for the little brig to die!”

He spoke these words in an under tone, and rather musing to himself than addressing his officer. The latter, however, overheard them, and looked at him with an astonishment which he could not repress; for he also knew as little as the crew of the determined courage that reposed under the calm and quiet demeanour of his young commander. Again a wreath of smoke issued from the bows of the frigate, and a round shot passed through the rigging of the chase, doing fortunately no material damage, but proving that they were now within easy range.

“I fear it will not do, sir,” said the mate, in reply to Ethelston’s last words; “she can pepper away at us, and yet make her offing good.”

“Then there remains but one chance for us,” said the captain; “answer her signal, show your colours, ‘bout ship, and stand for the frigate.”

The mate was, if possible, more surprised at this order than he had been before at the proposal to try and cast both vessels ashore; but he was too good a seaman to hesitate or to ask any questions; and in a few minutes the gallant little brig had answered the signal, and was standing out towards the frigate on the starboard tack.

We will now transport the reader for a few minutes on board The Epervier, and make him acquainted with the captain, into whose clutches the poor little brig seemed destined to fall. L’Estrange was a fine–looking, middle–aged man, who had spent the greater part of his life at sea, and had married, when very young, a Spanish creole, whose beauty was her only dower; he had several children by this marriage, the eldest of whom was now a lieutenant on board his ship; the remainder of the family resided at Point à Pitre, in Guadaloupe, for the captain was in truth rather of the “ancien régime;” he loved his country, but he hated the Directory and other fruits of the French revolution; so that he never went to Europe, and would have been but rarely employed, had he not been known to be one of the most skilful and experienced officers in the French navy. Such was the man who now stood on the frigate’s quarter–deck; and after examining The Pride again through his glass, turned to his first lieutenant and desired him to cease firing. “That obstinate trader,” added he, “seemed very anxious to escape, and thought but little of the risk she ran of going ashore, or of being riddled by our shot!”

“She’s one of those saucy Americans,” said the lieutenant, “that think nothing afloat can match ‘em; however, she’s made a mistake this time; and I hope, sir, when she’s overhauled, she’ll prove worth the trouble she’s given.”

The frigate, by this time, finding herself too close in on a lee shore, hauled to the wind; and, disliking the broken and rugged appearance of the coast, determined not to lie–to for the brig until she had made sufficient offing. This was precisely the calculation that Ethelston had made; and he now paced his deck with a calm and satisfied countenance; whilst his men, grouped on the forecastle, were quite at a loss to discover his intentions: the mate, however, was clearer sighted, and could not withhold his admiration from the decision and boldness of a manœuvre, the success of which must soon be tested.

The captain of the frigate went below to dinner, having given orders to the lieutenant to stand out on the same tack for another half–hour, then to lie–to, until the brig should come alongside.

Meantime, Ethelston, who had kept his eye fixed upon the headland so often mentioned, muttering to himself, “she will fetch it now,” desired the man at the helm to yaw the brig about, to throw her up now and then in the wind, so as to fall astern of the frigate as much as possible, yet not apparently varying the course. Having done so as long as he judged it practicable without awakening the enemy’s suspicion, he saw, to his inexpressible delight, the frigate shorten sail to enable him to come up; instantly seizing this advantage, he ordered his mate to put the brig about, and run for the Isle of Pines. It may well be imagined that this bold manœuvre was not many moments unperceived on board the frigate; and L’Estrange’s astonishment was great, when, from the noise overhead, and from the heeling of the ship, he found that her course was being altered. Springing on deck, he saw that he had been outwitted by the saucy brig, which was crowding all sail, and seemed not unlikely to effect her escape. The old captain chafed, and stormed, and swore that the obstinate little trader should pay dearly for her insolence.

The Epervier was a fast sailer, and, as she now dashed the spray from her bows under a press of canvass, it was soon evident that the brig could not yet round the point without coming within range of her guns.

Ethelston’s mind was now made up; and finding his men cheerful and inspirited by the success of his manœuvre, he yet hoped to bring his vessel into the intricate channel behind the island, where the frigate would not venture to follow: it was not long before she again saluted him; and one of the shot passing through the brig’s bulwarks, close to him, shivered the binnacle into a hundred pieces. Observing symptoms of uneasiness in the man at the helm, and that he swerved from the course, Ethelston gave him a stern reproof, and again desired Harrison to come to the helm. The frigate, which still held the weather–gage, seemed now resolved to cut off the brig from the headland, and to sink her if she attempted to weather it. Ethelston saw his full danger, and was prepared to meet it; had he commanded a vessel of war, however small, he would not have shrunk from the responsibility he was about to incur; but, remembering that his little brig was but a trader, and that the crew ought not to be exposed, without their own consent, to danger so imminent as that before them, he desired Gregson to call them aft, when he addressed them as follows:

“My lads,—you see the scrape we are in: if we can round that point, we may yet escape; but to do so, we must run within a few hundred yards of the frigate’s broadside. What say you, my lads, shall we strike, or stand the chance?—a French prison, or hurrah for the Belise?”

“Hurrah for the Belise,” shouted the men, animated by their young commander’s words, and by his fearless bearing; so the little brig held on her way.

A few minutes proved that he had neither magnified nor underrated the danger: his chart gave him deep water round the headland; and he now ordered Harrison to keep her away, and let her run close in shore, thereby increasing her speed, and the distance from the enemy.

The surprise and wrath of L’Estrange, at the impudent daring of a craft which he now perceived to be really nothing but an insignificant trader, are not to be described. He bore up after her, and having desired the men to stand to their guns, generously determined to give the saucy chase one more chance; but finding his repeated signal for her to heave–to, disregarded, he reluctantly gave the order to fire. Fortunately for The Pride, the sea was running high, and naval gunnery had not then reached the perfection which it has since attained; and though her rigging was cut up from stem to stern, and her fore–topmast was shot away, and though she received several shot in her hull, she still answered her helm, and gallantly rounding the point, ran in shore, and was in a few minutes among shoals which, to her light draught, were not dangerous, but where it would have been madness in the frigate to follow.

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Chapter XI

ETHELSTON’S FURTHER ADVENTURES AT SEA, AND HOW HE BECAME CAPTOR AND CAPTIVE IN A VERY SHORT SPACE OF TIME.

It seemed almost miraculous that not a man on The Pride of the Ohio was killed by the frigate’s broadside; nor was one wounded, excepting Ethelston, who received a slight hurt in the left arm from a splinter; but he paid no attention to it, and calmly gave all the requisite orders for repairing the damaged spars and rigging.

As soon as all was made snug, he let the men go below to dinner; and leaning over the shivered bulwarks of his little craft, seemed busily employed in counting the shot that had struck her; but his eyes were for a time fixed upon the water, through which she was cutting her easy way, and his thoughts were afar off, as he whispered almost audibly to himself, “Dear, dear Lucy—your namesake is wounded and disfigured, but she is not disgraced. Thank Heaven, no Frenchman’s foot has yet trodden her deck, and—“

Here he was interrupted by Gregson, who having been carefully observing the frigate through his glass, came up to him, and said, “Beg pardon, sir; but she is getting ready her boats, and the breeze is failing fast; in another hour we shall have scarce a cat’s paw.”

Ethelston started from his short reverie, and immediately convinced himself that the mate spoke the truth: “You are right,” said he, “but we have a good hour to spare, for the frigate is nearly becalmed. Let the men have their dinner quietly, say nothing to them about the matter, and give ‘em an extra glass of grog; but no drunkenness, Gregson; they may want the full use of their heads and hands to–night; send Cupid to my cabin, and tell him to bring me a slice of cold meat and a glass of Madeira.”

So saying, he went below: the mate looked after him, and turning his quid three or four times in his cheek, he muttered, “Damme if he makes any more count of the frigate’s guns or boats than a bear does of a bee–hive! They spoilt as good a commodore as ever stept a deck when they made a trading–skipper of him!” Having vented this characteristic encomium on his young commander, the old seaman went forward to execute his orders.

Meanwhile Ethelston, consulting his chart, found that the reefs and shoals, as laid down, rendered the navigation of the coast extremely dangerous, even for the light draught of his brig; having only allowed himself a few minutes for refreshment, he again went on deck, and observing the frigate still becalmed, he ordered the mate to shorten sail, take soundings, and to desire the carpenter to make a report of the leakage, or any other serious injury sustained by the frigate’s shot.

During this time L’Estrange was not idle on board The Epervier. Nettled at the successful trick played upon him, he resolved as the breeze gradually died away to capture the chase with his boats: for this duty the launch and the pinnace were assigned: the former had a carronade and twenty–five hands, and was commanded by his son; the latter had a swivel, and thirteen hands, commanded by a junior lieutenant. The object of L’Estrange being to prevent an unnecessary effusion of blood, by sending a force strong enough to render resistance hopeless on the part of what he called a dirty little sugar–boat. The crew of The Pride of Ohio, elated by the success of their captain’s manœuvre, and exhilarated by the extra grog served out, were in high good humour, and laughing over the events of the morning with reckless merriment, when they received an order from Ethelston to come aft. On their obeying the summons, he again addressed them as follows:—

“My lads, you have thus far done your duty like men; but our work is not yet over. The Epervier is determined to sink or capture our little craft; she is now getting out her boats for that service: if we resist, we shall have warm work of it; if we strike without a fight, we may rot in a French dungeon. Again I ask you, my lads, will you stick by The Pride, and hurrah for home, or a sailor’s grave?”

A hearty and simultaneous cheer from the crew was the only reply.

“I knew it, my lads,” continued Ethelston, his countenance, usually so calm, now glowing with enthusiasm; “I knew that you would not desert her while she could float! It is now my duty to tell you that she has received two awkward shots just between wind and water line, and that she leaks apace. We must stop them as well as we may; but be prepared for the boats from The Epervier;—they shall at least buy us a dear bargain!”

Ethelston now called the mate, and gave him full instructions for the plan of defence from the expected attack. The long gun and the carronades were got ready and loaded, the former with round shot, the latter with grape; small arms and cutlasses were served out to the men, and the deck cleared of every thing that might impede them in the approaching struggle. Meantime Ethelston ordered to be hoisted a new ensign, given to the brig by Lucy, and said to be partly worked by her own fair fingers. As soon as it was run up, he sent aloft a boy, with orders to nail it to the mast–head, which was done amid the repeated cheers of the crew. They were not long kept in suspense: the breeze had died away; the flapping sails and creaking yards gave the usual sullen indications of a calm, when the boats from The Epervier advanced at a steady and measured stroke towards the brig. Ethelston gave the long gun to the charge of Gregson, reserving to himself that of the carronades; he issued also special orders not to fire, under any circumstances, until he gave the word, or, in case he fell, until they received the order from Gregson, who would succeed him in the command.

During all these preparations, Cupid appeared indifferent to what was passing, and continued busily occupied with his pots and pans in the caboose. This conduct caused some little surprise in Ethelston, who knew that the black was not the stupid, phlegmatic character that he now seemed; and he accordingly sent Gregson to inquire whether, in the event of an attack from the frigate’s boats, he meant to fight?—desiring the mate at the same time to offer him a cutlass. The African grinned when he received this message, and replied that he meant to do his best. He declined, however, the proffered cutlass, informing the mate, that he had got a toasting–fork of his own, ready for the mounseers; as he said this, he showed him the fragment of a capstan–bar, the end of which he had sharpened and burnt hard in the hot cinders: it was an unwieldy kind of club, and in the hands of an ordinary man, could have been but of little service; but his gigantic strength enabled him to wield it like a common cudgel. The truth is, that Cupid would have preferred being armed with cutlass and pistol, both of which he could use as well as any man on board; but he had tact enough to know that the prejudice against his colour forbad his taking his place on deck among the other defenders of the vessel.

The boats being now within hail, Lieutenant L’Estrange stood up in the launch and ordered the brig to strike her colours and receive him on board. Finding this order unheeded, he repeated it through the trumpet in a sterner tone, adding that, if not immediately obeyed, he should fire upon her. Not a man stirred on board the brig, neither was any reply made to the lieutenant, who forthwith discharged the contents of his carronade into her hull, by which one man was killed dead, and two were wounded by splinters; he then desired his men to pull hard for the brig to board her, while others had orders to fire small arms at all whom they could see above the bulwarks. The boats had approached within fifty yards before Ethelston gave the word to fire. Gregson pointed the long gun upon the smaller boat with so true an aim that the heavy shot went clean through her, and she filled and went down in a few minutes, the survivors of her crew being picked up by the launch. Meanwhile, Ethelston fired a volley of grape into the latter with terrible effect, several being killed on the spot, and many of the remainder severely wounded. Nothing daunted by this murderous fire, the gallant young lieutenant held on his way to the brig, and again discharging his carronade at the distance of only a few yards, her timbers were fearfully rent, and amidst the smoke and confusion thereby created, he and his crew scrambled up her sides to board. The combat was now hand to hand; nor was it very unequal, so many of the Frenchmen having been killed and wounded in the boats; they were strong enough, however, to make good their footing on deck, and inch by inch they forced back the crew of the brig. Ethelston fought with the courage of a lion; his voice was heard above the din of the fray, animating his men; and several of the boldest of the enemy had already felt the edge of his cutlass. Nor was young L’Estrange less gallant in his attack; and his followers being more numerous than their opponents, drove them back gradually by main force. It was at this moment that Cupid, who had hitherto remained unnoticed in his caboose, thought fit to commence his operations; which he did by throwing a great pan of greasy boiling water over three or four of the assailants, and then laying about him with his huge club, which felled a man almost at every blow. The excruciating pain occasioned by the hot liquid, together with the consternation produced by this unexpected attack in their rear, completed the dismay of the Frenchmen. At this crisis young L’Estrange slipped and fell on the deck: Gregson, bestriding him, was about to dispatch him; when Ethelston, who was already bleeding from a severe cutlass wound in the forehead, rushed forward to save him; but the infuriated youth, perhaps mistaking his intention, drew his last remaining pistol, and fired with so true an aim, that Ethelston’s left arm fell powerless at his side. A flush of anger came over his countenance; but seeing Gregson again raising his hand to dispatch the young officer, he again interposed, and desired the mate to spare him,—an order which the seaman reluctantly obeyed.

Ethelston now entreated L’Estrange to give up his sword, and to save further bloodshed; and the young man, seeing that his followers were mostly overpowered and wounded, presented it with a countenance in which grief and shame were blended with indignation. “Stay,” said Ethelston; “before I receive your sword, the conditions on which I receive it are, that you give your parole, that neither you nor any one of your men shall bear arms against the United States during the continuance of this war, whether you and I are recaptured or not; and the launch becomes my prize.”

To these terms the youth assented, and ordered such of his men as were not quite disabled, to lay down their arms. In a few minutes, all who were unhurt were busily engaged in tending the dying and wounded. Fortunately an assistant–surgeon, who had volunteered on this service from the frigate, was among those unhurt, and he set about his professional duties with as much alacrity as if he had been in the ward of an hospital. Cupid retreated quietly to his caboose, and Ethelston continued giving his orders with the same clearness and decision that had marked his whole conduct. Young L’Estrange looked over the brig’s low sides into the water: his heart was too full for utterance; and his captor, with considerate kindness, abstained from addressing him. The surgeon, observing that the blood still flowed from the wound on Ethelston’s forehead, and that his left arm hung at his side, now came and offered his services. Thanking him courteously, he replied, smiling, “I took my chance of wounds on equal terms with those brave fellows, and I will take my chance of cure on equal terms also; when you have attended to all those who are more seriously hurt, I shall be happy to avail myself of your skill.”

The surgeon bowed and withdrew. An audible groan burst from the unhappy L’Estrange; but still he spoke not; and Ethelston held a brief consultation with his mate and the carpenter, the result of which was, an order given to the former, in a low tone of voice, “to prepare immediately, and to send Cupid to him in the cabin.”

As he was going down, L’Estrange came to him, and asked him, confusedly, and with an averted countenance, if he might speak to him alone for a minute. Ethelston begged him to follow him into his cabin, when, having shut the door, he said, “Mr. L’Estrange, we are alone, pray speak; is there any thing in which I can serve you?”

The youth gazed on him for a moment, in an agony that could not yet find relief in words, and then falling on the floor, burst into a flood of tears. Ethelston was moved and surprised at this violent grief in one whom he had so lately seen under the influence of pride and passion. Taking him kindly by the hand, he said, “Pray compose yourself! these are misfortunes to which all brave men are liable. You did all that a gallant officer could do;—success is at the disposal of a higher power; you will meet it another day.”

“Never, never!” said the young lieutenant, vehemently; “the loss of my boat is nothing; the failure of our attack is nothing; but I am a dishonoured coward, and Heaven itself cannot restore a tainted honour!”

“Nay, nay,” replied Ethelston; “you must not say so. I maintain that you and your crew fought gallantly till every hope of success was gone—the bravest can do no more!”

“You are blindly generous,” said the youth passionately; “you will not understand me! When every hope was gone—when I lay at the mercy of your mate’s cutlass—you sprang forward to save my life. I, like a savage—a monster—a coward, as I am,—fired and tried to kill you;—even then, without a word of anger or reproach, you, although wounded by my pistol, again interposed, and saved me from the death I deserved. Oh, would that I had died an hundred deaths rather than have lived to such disgrace!”

And again the unhappy young officer buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame still trembled convulsively with grief. Ethelston used every exertion to soothe and allay his agitation. He assured him that the wound he had received was not serious, that the pistol was fired under a strong excitement, and in the turmoil of a bloody fray, when no man’s thoughts are sufficiently collected to regulate his conduct; and he forgave him so freely, and mingled his forgiveness with so many expressions of kindness and esteem, that he succeeded at length in restoring him to a certain degree of composure. Nothing, however, would satisfy L’Estrange but that he should have his wounds instantly dressed; and he ran himself and summoned the surgeon, resolving to be present at the operation.

When Ethelston’s clothes were removed, it appeared that, besides a few flesh–cuts, of no great consequence, he had received two severe shot wounds: one from a musket–ball, which had sunk deep into the left shoulder; the other from L’Estrange’s pistol, by which the bone of the left arm was broken. The latter was soon set and bandaged; but the ball could not be extracted from the former, either because the surgeon’s skill was not equal to the task, or from his not having with him the instruments requisite for the operation. As soon as this was over, Ethelston dismissed the surgeon; and turning good–humouredly to L’Estrange he said, “Now, my young friend, I want your assistance. I must lose no time in putting all our men aboard the launch, and taking in as many stores and necessaries as she will hold, for this brig is doomed; your swivel and the frigate’s guns have finished her; she is fast settling down, and in a couple of hours I expect her to sink.”

“On my word, sir,” said L’Estrange, “you will pardon me if I say that you are the strangest gentleman that I ever yet knew to command a trading brig! You out–manœuvre a frigate, capture her boats, fight as if you had done nothing but fight all your life, sit as quiet under that surgeon’s probes and tortures as if you were eating your dinner, and now talk calmly of scuttling your brig, for which you have run all these risks!”

“It is my philosophy, Monsieur L’Estrange. I tried first to get away without fighting; when that was impossible, I fought as well as I could. What has happened since, and what is yet to come, I bear as well as I can! All that I ask of you is, to keep your fellows in order, and make them assist mine in removing the wounded and the requisite stores on board the launch.” So saying, and again saluting his prisoner, he went on deck.

Though he struggled thus manfully against his emotion, it was with a heavy heart that Ethelston prepared to bid a final adieu to his little vessel, which he loved much for her own sake,—more perhaps for the name she bore. While giving the necessary orders for this melancholy duty, his attention was called by Gregson to a sail that was coming up with the light evening breeze astern. One look through the glass sufficed to show him that she hoisted French colours; and L’Estrange, who now came on deck, immediately knew her to be The Hirondelle,—an armed cutter, that acted on this cruise as a tender to The Epervier. A momentary glow overspread the countenance of Ethelston, as he felt that resistance was hopeless, and that in another hour his brig would be sunk, and his brave crew prisoners. But being too proud to allow the French officer to see his emotion, he controlled it by a powerful effort, and continued to give his orders with his accustomed coolness and precision.

Though young L’Estrange’s heart beat high at this sudden and unlooked–for deliverance, he could not forbear his admiration at his captor’s self–possession; and his own joy was damped by the remembrance of that portion of his own conduct which he had so deeply lamented, and also of the parole he had given, not to bear arms again during the war. Meantime the removal of the men, the stores, the provisions, and papers from the brig went on with the greatest order and despatch.

Ethelston was the last to leave her: previous to his doing so, he made the carpenter knock out the oakum and other temporary plugs with which he had stopped the leaks, being determined that she should not fall into the hands of the French. This being completed, the launch shoved off; and while pulling heavily for the shore, the crew looked in gloomy silence at their ill–fated brig. Ethelston was almost unmanned; for his heart and his thoughts were on Ohio’s banks, and he could not separate the recollections of Lucy from the untimely fate of her favourite vessel. He gazed until his sight and brain grew dizzy; he fancied that he saw Lucy’s form on the deck of the brig, and that she stretched her arms to him for aid. Even while he thus looked, the waters poured fast into their victim. She settled,—sunk; and in a few minutes scarce a bubble on their surface told where The Pride of Ohio had gone down! A groan burst from Ethelston’s bosom. Nature could no longer endure the accumulated weight of fatigue and intense pain occasioned by his wounds: he sunk down insensible in the boat, and when he recovered his senses, found himself a prisoner on board The Hirondelle.

Great had been the surprise of the lieutenant who commanded her at the disappearance of the brig which he had been sent to secure; and greater still at the condition of the persons found on board the launch. His inquiries were answered by young L’Estrange with obvious reluctance: so having paid the last melancholy duties to the dead, and afforded all the assistance in his power to the wounded, he put about the cutter, and made sail for The Epervier.

As soon as young L’Estrange found himself on the frigate’s deck, he asked for an immediate and private audience of his father, to whom he detailed without reserve all the circumstances of the late expedition. He concluded his narration with the warmest praises of Ethelston’s courage, conduct, and humanity, while he repeated that bitter censure of his own behaviour which he had before expressed on board The Pride of Ohio. The gallant old captain, though mortified at the failure of the enterprise and the loss of men that he had sustained, could not but appreciate the candour, and feel for the mortification of his favourite son; and he readily promised that Ethelston should be treated with the greatest care and kindness, and that the most favourable terms, consistent with his duty, should be offered to the prisoners.

Young L’Estrange gave up his own berth to Ethelston, whose severe sufferings had been succeeded by a weakness and lethargy, yet more dangerous. The surgeon was ordered to attend him; and his care was extended to all the wounded, without distinction of country.

After a few days, Captain L’Estrange determined to exchange Gregson, the mate, and the remainder of the brig’s crew, for some French prisoners lately taken by an American privateer: they were accordingly placed for that purpose on board the cutter, and sent to New Orleans. Young L’Estrange having learned from the mate the address of Colonel Brandon, and his connection with Ethelston, wrote him a letter, in which he mentioned the latter in the highest and most affectionate terms, assuring the Colonel that he should be treated as if he were his own brother; and that, although the danger arising from his wounds rendered it absolutely necessary that he should return to Guadaloupe with the frigate, his friends might rely upon his being tended with the same care as if he had been at home. Cupid, at his own urgent entreaty, remained with his master, taking charge of all his private baggage and papers.

We need not follow the fate of the cutter any further than to say that she reached her destination in safety; that the proposed exchange was effected, and the prisoners restored to their respective homes.

The surgeon on board The Epervier succeeded at length in taking out the ball lodged in Ethelston’s shoulder; and when they arrived at Guadaloupe, he pronounced his patient out of danger, but enjoined the strictest quiet and confinement, till his recovery should be further advanced. The ardent young L’Estrange no sooner reached home than he prevailed on his father to receive Ethelston into his own house. He painted to his sister Nina, a girl of seventeen, the sufferings and the heroism of their guest in the most glowing colours; he made her prepare for him the most refreshing and restoring beverages; he watched for hours at the side of his couch; in short, he lavished upon him all those marks of affection with which a hasty and generous nature loves to make reparation for a wrong. In all these attentions and endeavours, he was warmly seconded by Nina, who made her brother repeat more than once the narrative of the defence and subsequent loss of the brig. How Ethelston’s recovery proceeded under the care of the brother and sister shall be told in another chapter.

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